


A Branch of Magic that has Never Worked

by raayachez



Series: A Thousand Ways this Could Go [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fantastic Racism, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Ghosts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Magical Accidents, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Misunderstandings, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Mystery, Necromancy, Not Really Character Death, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), POV Alternating, POV Original Character, POV Regulus Black, POV Third Person, Person of Color Harry Potter, Person of Color Hermione Granger, Personification of Death, Possession, Queer Characters, Redemption, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black-centric, Rituals, Sibling Bonding, Temporary Character Death, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Unreliable Narrator, Wizarding Laws (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raayachez/pseuds/raayachez
Summary: He turned his head and slowly opened his eyes, needing a few minutes to adjust. It had been a long time since he had last blinked away any dust from his eyelashes.A trickle of water splashed over his legs and it left his pants, remarkably,soaked. His clothes were actually getting damp from the liquid, and he could even perceive the gradual change from solid muscle to frigid, trembling limbs.Oh no. This couldn't be happening.Merlin, he thought. He was actually alive.
Relationships: (Past) Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Regulus Black & Kreacher, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Series: A Thousand Ways this Could Go [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935421
Comments: 48
Kudos: 124





	1. The Consequences of Obscure Magic

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicide idealization, implied suicide attempt
> 
> i'm going to be clear about it, reg is characterized as a suicidal person. he has expressed and most likely will continue to express thoughts that both glorify and show suicide in a positive light. this is one of the issues that i will cover in the story, and is also one of the things that he will realize that he was wrong about treating it in such a manner. 
> 
> [PLEASE](https://creativesocialworker.tumblr.com/hotlines) do not think i'm trying to say that suicide is a good thing, and if you or a loved one ever feels suicidal please please please talk to somebody about it; do not let such feelings fester. The link I have attached has a masterlist of hotlines/chat rooms/etc
> 
> if you're here for the golden trio, wolfstar, any of the later tags, it might be almost ten-ish chapters before they make an appearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother had always said that only weak willed men would choose to become ghosts after their demise, people who never got to truly experience the afterlife. While muggles didn’t have proof of a soul, or any existence after death, wizards did.
> 
> Dementors, ghosts, poltergeists, they all showed that it was definite. Regulus could have chosen to go through the veil. . . and he didn’t.

_Unknown Location_

_Unknown Date_

Regulus floated on the murky, dark water that helped kill him, and thought: _I must be insane for not finding my current situation completely unbearable_.

There were very few scenarios in which members of the Black family could admit that it was just unreasonable to have hope for. . . something.

Anything.

This, easily, was one of them. The admittance meant a great deal, considering how inbred – how _insane_ – the bloodline was. His parents were second–cousins, for Merlin’s sake! He was just more likely to inherit the legendary, talked–about Black insanity; maybe, he already had it.

Regulus Black was dead. Is dead. Will be dead. Yet. . .

There he was, in the cave, attached to the stupid, replication of the locket. Unable to leave his wretched death place, and with only inferni for company, he struggled to remember how many days have passed since he stopped breathing.

Mother had always said that only spineless men would choose to become ghosts after their demise, people who never got to truly experience the afterlife. While muggles didn’t have proof of a soul, or any existence after death, wizards did.

Dementors, ghosts, poltergeists, they all showed that it was definite. Regulus could have chosen to go through the veil. . . and he didn’t.

It was the stupidest choice he had ever made, proving it was a significant thing, indeed.

He always knew he was weak. He recalls Sirius calling him the Black sheep, to Sirius being the family’s black sheep. But, this! This was embarrassing! Absolutely humiliating! His mother would have surely hexed him for it. His father would also give his normal stern look of disappointment, before doing something much worse.

Regulus had made many miscalculations, many mistakes, many idiotic choices in a vain attempt to please the people around him, and they had never, _never_ worked.

Really, Regulus Arcturus Black, in all of his overwhelmingly short life, had been nothing short of a disappointment.

His mother would chastise, _you’re much too emotional, Reggie, dear!_ Fine, he relented. He would stop crying so much — which didn’t really matter, because he had always used magic to hide any red or swollen eyes — but his brother starts to think he’s a coldhearted bastard.

(That wasn’t even fair. He was just trying to hide any signs of tears. He was a pureblood heir, Merlin damn it!)

His brother would sneer, _James was more of a brother to me than you will ever be._ Fine, he understood. He would start giving a damn, because apparently that’s how siblings are supposed to behave like. But his father begins to think he was acting unfitting of a recently turned heir, when Sirius ran away because he could never handle the pressure of being firstborn.

Regulus still hated him for that. Why did Regulus have to care so much for somebody who could not do the same for him? If _anything,_ that wasn’t normal for them.

(Alright. He can admit it was a ridiculous comparison, anyways, when Regulus and Sirius have never been anything but scions to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. And that was most certainly not something normal either.)

(Sirius was disowned, and he didn’t hold any real power when it came to family or pureblood politics, yet. . . he still inherited a good portion of the Black family fortune. Not that he would be grateful for it, but a Black was a Black and blood was blood. Father was always soft for him, anyways.)

His father would scold, _you were never the one we wanted_. Fine, he grit out. He would join the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters because he swore to Morgana, this had to be the one thing that he could do without any regrets. Right? _Please_ , he prayed, _let this be what my parents can be proud of me for_.

(He was so wrong; it was almost ridiculous.)

All dark magic users are twisted, in one way or another, but the Dark Lord was sickening. More so than any human that had ever existed and will absolutely go to a special sort of hell when he dies. Er, _if_ he dies.

Because, no matter how depraved Regulus might think the Dark Lord was, how cruel, how inhumane, how horrible – there was no guarantee that Kreacher will even destroy the locket. Kreacher could be dead by now, and there was no safety net to prevent his friend’s death. He hated how little power he was able to exert, when he was supposed to be the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

What good were titles, when he couldn’t do anything when it mattered? Because obviously he was never enough for anyone and was never able to do the correct choice of action for anyone. Except for Kreacher, that was.

And Regulus thought, _this is my only regret in the realm of the living. Please, God, let me depart after I see my friend, one last time_.

He hoped, in a desire foreign to him, that any higher power would be listening to a lonely ghost in the middle of an even lonelier sea, and that they would take pity. That they would let him go to Grimmauld Place, and hopefully, _hopefully_. Kreacher would be still alive, and Regulus would be able to give an appropriate goodbye, for somebody who was always with him, through night and day. He wanted to assure Kreacher that Regulus’s death wasn’t the house elf’s fault. He just. . . missed Kreacher’s presence, societal roles be damned.

Regulus was well aware of what he had done. He did not walk to death as a careless moron. He was conscious of what his actions would mean, of what would happen to him. But he didn’t account for this reality, and he regretted his numbness to life, when he still drew breath.

Suicide.

That was what it was.

And he welcomed it with open arms. He still would, if he did not remain as a ghost. Regulus floated on the cool water, and he realized, almost somberly, that he did not truly regret his actions. Maybe, he almost regretted that it did not work properly. But that wasn’t legitimate.

The one time he had genuinely, actually, completely tried to do something; the one time he had planned and schemed, and there were no holes in the design; the one time he did something he could be proud of, he managed to utterly fail. . . He had managed to fail to die.

And it was a perfect suicide! He could flee from all of his abysmal blunders and unrest, and finally, he would be at peace. It should have been what happened. He was just so tired, so apathetic, so resigned.

That was his real regret - _his failure_ \- it was not a true desire to live.

His ghostly toes were starting to pass through the stone. Regulus sighed. He would have to start floating in the other direction. As he carefully turned around, he was nearly blinded by a luminescent light.

The algae draped over the walls glowed in a mystical sheen, distracting him from his ordinary, brooding thoughts. It was one of the few interesting aspects of the cave, but it still got tiring to look at, when all he wanted was to close his eyes and pretend that he wasn’t actually dead. The plant reminded him of the Slytherin common rooms, when he wasn’t forced to be a ruthless murder. Of better times, times that he would do anything to go back to, but he knew nothing would erase the terrible actions he had done as a servant of the Dark Lord.

Everything, _everything_ felt like a stab to the heart.

He was damned to be stuck in this miserable place until his final wish was fulfilled. If he guessed correctly, that would be seeing the Dark Lord himself read his note – his _suicide note_ – because he was just that petty. He knew Blacks were supposed to hold grudges, but in all honesty, he might have taken it a little bit too far.

So, he was chained to the locket until. . . well, he might be chained to it until it was destroyed, because the Dark Lord might not even be the one looking for the horcrux. It was disappointing, because until then, he had nothing to do.

It had been five minutes since he last sighed, so he did it once more. It was better than only hearing the harsh waves that slapped against the stone. All things became tedious after being forced to struggle through them day, after day. Regulus took a deep breath in, which didn't even do anything, because he no longer breathed. He was more of an immortal than the Dark Lord, in that aspect. How Shakespearean.

His last action to take down the vile man, only to be superior to the Dark Lord in the one aspect the disgusting man desired the most; it could become a bestseller. He imagined it: Regulus Black’s newest book, From Beyond the Veil! He wondered if his acquaintances would even read it. Were they even alive?

He was so desperate for interaction with a living thing, it was almost approaching the line of embarrassment. But he was a Black, and as Mother always said, _Blacks do not feel embarrassed. Why would we, if we are always correct?_

Oh, Mother, he thought. She was so, _so_ wrong.

Being a ghost was dreadfully boring. Almost, you could say, killing you with boredom. He would want to laugh, if he actually considered it humorous. He didn’t.

There were too many. . . limitations for being a wraith. It was like a badly sculpted caricature of life.

And the locket, oh, the locket - the reason why he remained. The Dark Lord was always a little too arrogant, unable to stop with the narcissism, even when it served no purpose. It was what enabled him to find out about the horcrux so easily – just a short week – and what spurred him to write the note. It would take years for his once–master to even wonder about it.

He laughed to himself, because no matter the number of times he had gone over the theory about the reasons for him being a ghost, it still sounded inane. He can’t tell if his mother would be proud of him or hex him, and that makes his giggles worse. That is, before he remembered the Dark Lord’s temper He might go out and kill the rest of the Blacks and make him watch, just for Regulus’s disobedience. Like the many instances he had thought about the letter, so impossibly gloating, he wondered why he felt the need to write it.

Regulus softly cursed himself and his arrogance, but it was halfhearted. _Blacks do not have regrets_ , a familiar drawl said, in his head.

Then, he heard a voice.

Oh, at first, he reasoned. His memories must have gotten stuck behind his eyelids, becoming a little too close to reality, once again. Like it did, just a few seconds ago. He attempted to match the voice to a face, and he realized that he _couldn’t_ , he doesn’t know the owner of this voice.

This wasn’t mother or father or Sirius or Bella or Cissy or Andy or Baz or anybody he had grown to regret his inaction towards. He was not daydreaming this. There was somebody there, somebody who didn’t know him!

His eyes snapped wide open, but there was an instinct that told him he should survey who exactly was entering the cave. Time–after–time reliable Slytherin preservation, he assumed.

Cautiously, he flew toward the sound and prayed that it wasn’t one of the Death Eaters. He might not have believed in God, not the way it was expected of him, but it was better for everyone if no one had found out about the truth of his disappearance. It would be easier, too. He can only begin to imagine how awkward the interrogation would be.

He knew his fellow Death Eaters, after all. They were his playmates and cousins and the people he spent time with at parties. They were the people who argued if Linda or Faye should end up with Sebastian in the newest show, the one they played in the Wizarding Wireless. Regulus knew their favorite colors and their favorite foods and their favorite songs. . . and it would hurt if they were forced into that position.

He was well aware he wasn’t particularly liked, though nobody liked each other in Slytherin, but they were able to stand each other, and that was sort of flattering, in its own way. In a way other houses wouldn’t be able to understand.

“Etta!” a low – clearly male – voice hissed. “Do you think he would like what you’re doing right now? Do you think he would approve what you’re doing?”

“Oh, shut up! You barely even know him. He was my _brother_.”

“Henrietta Wilkerson, you cannot be serious. So, what if he was your brother? He wasn’t only that. I was his bo– He was my best friend too, but I would never want this, not ever.”

The two muggles were evidently fighting over something, a dead person, from what Regulus understood. What remained a question was what this Henrietta named woman had wanted to do. Though, there was something oddly familiar about her. Maybe, Regulus had seen her on the crowded London streets, when he was still alive.

The man who was harshly arguing over Wilkerson’s intended actions — a crime, perhaps? — acted as if he cared a lot for her brother. A lot more than a simple best friend. His slight eastern European accent, which was showing up and retreating on occasion, made it impossible to concentrate on the conversation and comprehend what they were doing so close to the cave. Nothing else was here.

He doesn’t even understand _how_ they got here. The cave wasn’t particularly accessible to most muggles; he imagined they scaled the steep rocks outside of it, but neither of them was sopping with water.

“Maximus– Max, please, you don’t understand what it’s like. I was a freak in so many ways, for all my life, and it was like Fredrick was the only one who would accept me as who I was: just Etta.

“And then one day, I found out I was almost normal, that there were other people like me! What’s the point of having this gift and not even using it for the people who matter the most?”

Wilkerson was pleading by this point, and Regulus started to feel sympathetic for the poor girl. She had clearly spent most of her time as an outcast. He didn’t know enough about muggle society to reason why she was so isolated. Wilkerson didn’t wear a headscarf or other head covering, so it wasn’t because of any religion. Though, the same biases extended to some areas of the wizarding world, so it wasn’t like it was an original thought.

Instead of looking persuaded, Maximus looks even more enraged.

“Your gift? Your gift,” he pulled at his hair. “Do you want to know what I think about your gift? You’re utterly wasting it! I read your plans, and I might not be part of your family but what you’re going to do is unnatural! You’re going against nature! Freddy loves you, and that’s why he would hate what you’re doing.”

The escalating conflict had left Regulus confused. Internally, he thought about how it was a good idea to keep out of sight. Neither of the two muggles would be able to see him, but it felt as if a fight was about to start, and he would rather not want to be in between that. He could hear Sirius calling him a coward, but he cared not.

Maximus continued, “What about the school you went to? Pigfarts? And the teacher you admire so much, Professor Sprout? How do you think she would react to this? What if you mess up? Look, I can’t lose you too, not with how things are going right now.”

Regulus startled. He realized how he knew Henrietta; Henrietta Wilkerson, a mudblood Hufflepuff. Not someone who was affluent enough to be in Regulus’s circles, but he had made sure to know something about everyone. She was in the year below him and had lost her brother during the war, like many others.

It was rumored that they had never found his body. . . much like what likely happened with Regulus’s own family.

Fuck. Fredrick had to be one of the inferi in the cave.

How did she even find it? The Dark Lord was prodigious at making locations unplottable, so that only meant. . . he wanted people to fall victim to one of the many traps inside of it. That man didn’t need another ego trip, that he was successful, once again. His head wouldn’t take it and would explode with the pressure.

“Great Morgana, I know what I’m doing! I got an apprenticeship with Madam Renshaw, only one of the best spell researchers of the last century. And I know that his body is here, I don’t even need to do anything, I just–”

“You just want to do _what_? Because from the notes that were on your desk, you wish to resurrect him! That’s a perverse use of magic, and you know it.”

Regulus shivered. The mere implication of Wilkerson’s actions scared him. Necromancy was a delicate, wicked art, and even if everything went well, Frederick would simply trade an old master for a different one: his sister.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Wilkerson drew her wand, “But it seems to be necessary. _Stupefy_!”

The spell landed on her target. Maximus was only a second too late to put up a shield.

Her hand was shaking, but she carried on with her procedure. Meanwhile, the ghost was shocked by the turn of events. He didn’t know how ruthless the Hufflepuff in question could be.

He should come forward, and advise her to stop, but there was something that told him he should let the witch be, which was completely insane. Wilkerson would more than likely end up destroying something, maybe even killing herself. Yet. . .

He felt a sense of trust in her runes, almost confident, even. His feelings were completely unreliable, obviously. There was no verification of her abilities and Wilkerson was a _mudblood_. There was nothing that could have suggested his current emotions.

The woman started to approach the entrance, before stopping a foot away. She frowned. “A weakness payment. . .”

Time seemed to come to a halt before she came to a decision. She opened her brown satchel, rummaging around the bag. Regulus was sure she had placed an undetectable extension charm on it.

Wilkerson took out a basin, oddly reminiscent of the one inside of the cave, and a silver–tipped knife. Apparently, the Dark Lord and the Wilkersons, a mudblood family, shop at the same stores, imagine that.

 _Oh_ , Regulus acknowledged, this was what she was going to do.

Necromancy is a dubious ritual, one that is bloody and gruesome. Magic needs an equilibrium; one could compare it to an exchange.

To maintain that balance, the wizard would need to drain a lot of blood, more often than not, from the victim of the rite. Wilkerson, at least, didn’t kill some defenseless animals in order to complete it. Though Regulus was unsure how that honor would let her do the ritual properly, with the amount of blood she would have to use for the sheer scale of the ritual. And if she wanted to do the necromantic ritual, she would have to avoid doing the weakness point, instead completing the ritual outside of the cave.

With great pragmatism, Wilkerson placed her arm above the basin, and made one, long cut. The blood collected in the container, which she soon used for the rite.

The red stains haunted his mind, as the witch dipped her finger in the blood, and carefully repeated the sequence over and over. The circles were drawn at a precisely measured four-centimeter separation. He was entranced with the runes; there was no choice but to continue staring.

She finished the circle and slapped the stone with her hands. Henrietta started chanting, her wand a few meters away from her.

Few modern magic rituals don’t need wands, but necromancy was an old magic. It was something that was done for centuries, with far more advancements than what was really necessary, in Regulus’s opinion. It did not require precision as much as it did intent. Optimally, necromancy would never be used, as it never really worked as intended. There was always an unknown deal you’d have to make, when you desire for more than mindless control. Nevertheless, foolish wizards and witches continued practicing it.

The fact that a wizard would be trying to get somebody back from the veil. . . Even dark families did not try to go as far as necromancy. It was considered playing God and wizards might have been many things, but irreverence was not one of their qualities; they knew their limits well and understood _when_ to stop. The Dark Lord, clearly, wasn’t one of them, but he did not have limits barring him from _anything_. He had grasped immortality with a firm hand, so it made sense he cared naught for typical wizarding beliefs.

Wilkerson stilled. The ghost looked up from the roughly drawn circles, in absurd panic.

The witch was frothing, which made _no_ sense. All of her runes were written perfectly, there were no mistakes in the script. It was absolutely flawless. What was missing? What had gone wrong? Oh Merlin, black liquid was leaking from her eyes and mouth and ears, and oh, what was happening?

Regulus might have not done anything to betray his existence, yet, but he couldn’t just let the witch die when he could still do something. He floated over to the wizard.

He was still incorporeal, but he would be cold to the touch, and that might just be the thing to wake the man up. He pressed his hands on Maximus’s fingers and face. He doesn’t know what to do if it didn’t. He didn’t want to be responsible for another preventable death, even if it was an unimportant mudblood.

The man twitched.

He aimed to focus his temperature to his hands; Maximus continued to shake and roll his head around, until finally, he jolted up.

“Henrietta,” he gasped.

Regulus floated above them, hoping to remain hidden from them. Maximus ran to the convulsing woman and questioned her. He got nary a response, besides an incomprehensible moan.

“Shit. We– I– I’m going to get you to St. Mungo’s.”

The man put his arm across her shoulders, and thankfully, neither of their tremors affected his apparition. If he had went to her a minute later, she would have definitely died from the blood loss. At least now, she had a chance.

Reveling in his success, Regulus couldn’t help but smile. Suddenly, a wave of nausea crashed over him.

He almost felt. . . alive. It was disturbing.

A hammer had been whacked over his head, and a skull splitting pain exploded from his ears, where it spread to his forehead. This was worse than any migraine he had ever had, and he felt the need to close his eyes.

For the first time since he had died, he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REWRITE(9/21): changed most of reg's monologue in the beginning and cut the chapter into 2, for rzns stated in the notes of the 2nd chapter and YES that is a ref to AVPM i've been rewatching it bc that's the only valid thin ever
> 
> kudos and comments feed me :]


	2. Some Uncomfortable Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Language,” her ma chastised, and it almost felt normal. Like her daughter was never possessed, and her son was still alive, and like they weren’t in the middle of a civil war inside of the wizarding community or that there wasn’t political unrest, out of it too.
> 
> “A ghost, a spirit, maybe? It was there. And I know who they are, I just can’t quite recall who the face belonged to. But–”
> 
> “But what, Etta?”
> 
> “Merlin, I was getting to that,” she rolled her eyes in fond exasperation, but continued talking. “The ghost, it was an upperclassman from school. I don’t exactly remember the ghost’s name, but I’m sure that it was in Slytherin. I know that much.”

_Fourth Floor_

_St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

_November 1, 1981_

“DO YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF? DO YOU KNOW HOW RECKLESS, HOW STUPID, HOW IDIOTIC THAT WAS?”

“Oh, bugger. My head hurts, Ma, could you speak more–” 

Henrietta Wilkerson sat in a hospital bed, clutching her head. There was a reason her ma, Mrs. Wilkerson, rarely shouted at her children; her temper was legendary, as well as brutal. 

“You had to get your stomach pumped out, and those medihealers of yours, they didn’t even know if you would make it! I can be as loud as I want, Henrietta Boyce Wilkerson!”

Now Henrietta felt bad, her ma was on the verge of crying because of her.

“Ma,” she sighed.

“You were trying to raise the dead! What type of daughter of mine would be foolish enough to do that? No, not even foolish, crazy enough to do that? I’ve told you so many times how dangerous magic could be. But no! Do you ever listen to me?”

“Ma.”

“If I had known,” her ma struggled to find the right words. “If I had known this was the result of seven years of schooling, I wouldn’t have even sent you there! To that weird school. All that happened there was corruption, of, of _you_!”

“MA!”

“WHAT? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t know what’s going on! One second, we just got the news about Fred, and then the next, I’m having a seizure on some random beach! More than a year passed since then, and I have no idea what happened! I have this giant, spotty hole in my head, and I’m trying so, _so_ hard, but I just don’t know!”

Her ma paled and paused her reprimands. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“No,” Henrietta shook her head. “How could I make light about something like that? I have a reputation to keep, you know. Having a dark humor isn’t part of it, in fact this isn’t even funny– we were warned about things like this in Defense, but I never imagined it could have happened to me. Nevertheless, that it had happened, at all. And the fact that it happened immediately. . .”

“So, what does that mean? Are you saying something took over your body?”

“The correct terminology is possession, but yes. That’s what happened to me, and what I’ve been trying to tell you! For the past fifteen minutes, if I want to be precise, but you were so busy telling me off, you didn’t notice.”

“Fine, be mad at me for worrying. My only daughter, my only child, gets sent to the hospital for messing up a dark ritual – once that I’ve been told has been notably banned for the past two hundred years – but I’m told that she might not even survive. You wouldn’t believe how those nurses looked at me, like I endorsed such recklessness. Pray tell, how else could I react?”

“Well, you could have asked me what occurred, first. Before you yelled–”

“You’re acting like I could have guessed that! Well, I can’t. I don’t want to do anything with this magic, and I don’t want to learn anything about it, not when it’s causing my children to be _possessed_ and _murdered_.”

“I’m not saying you have to do anything with my world. It’s just– I'm fine, now, so you don’t have to worry,” Henrietta paused. “I just need to make sure me and Max are on the same page, establish what went down, yeah? Can you call him for me? My throat still feels sore.”

“So, it’s _your_ world now, isn’t it?” her ma snapped.

“Ma!”

Her ma gave her a sharp look. 

“Please,” she pleaded.

Henrietta knew how this must look like, with her possession matching up nicely with Fredrick’s disappearance, and regardless of what her ma had thought of Fredrick, her ma must have known what his real relationship with Maximus was.

If her ma was a lesser woman, she might have been startled at how self-absorbed they were with each other. If other people found out about their relationship, with how obvious they were. . . things could get very messy. Henrietta could easily follow her train of thought, that it was much more opportune to act as if she wasn’t aware of it. The additional attention wasn’t worth it, and at best, they would only be harassed by the other members of the community. However, that was in an ideal world, where prejudice held no weight, and that world wasn't theirs.

Max was heartbroken at the announcement of her brother’s assumed death and didn’t seem like the type of person who would use other people like that, twisting them to do his bidding. But he was also the only one present with Henrietta when she had done the ritual, and it wasn’t like she could just ignore what his family does. He was a clear suspect of the crime, and it would be foolish to think otherwise.

Her ma sighed, “Of course, dear. You must have a lot of questions, especially if your suspicion is right, it could clear up a lot of things.”

Henrietta scowled, “It’s not a suspicion if it was what happened to me, Ma. I got possessed, end of story.”

Ignoring her mutinous remarks, her ma shouted at the man to come to her bedside, and Max scuttled towards them.

“Etta! You’re really fine!”

He embraced her with a fierce hug, one that Henrietta did not return. More to do so with the sore pains in her arms, rather than any personal dislike.

“I am, or, I will be.”

“Oh, Etta, I was so worried that I didn’t make it in time. That you really could have. . .”

Max refused to say the last word and his voice dimmed to a whisper, but his meaning was apparent enough. her ma held on to the hospital blanket that was draped over Henrietta tighter, as if her daughter would simply vanish if she looked away. 

“You didn’t, though. So, it’s all good. More importantly, Max, what happened out there?”

The other two persons in her presence let out sounds like that of a strangled cat.

“Okay? I know what you did with that blade. You could have. . . you were so close to. . . Etta, that was a killing cut. That’s the type of cut people use to die.”

“Stay on topic,” she growled. Everything about this was unusual, so much so they did not even question her unusually angry tone, and she had no idea what she was like during her possession. She had no way to reflect her gradual change of personality, to see what was expected of her, now.

With a puzzled tone, he said, “You’re the one asking me?” The man shook his head, taking on a nastier tone, “Fine then, if you really want to know what I thought. Etta, it was the foulest thing I’ve seen you do. It was like– like, you were under the imperius. You were addicted to the dark magic, like there was no alternative, and you know how weak you are to it. You stunned me for trying to change your mind, and you were ranting on and on about how Freddy deserves another chance. I agree about Freddy deserving to live, but necromancy? You know–”

“Yes, I know that necromancy is a dangerous sort of magic. Even You–Know–Who would risk his life if he tried to do what I was doing. Er, what I had wanted to do.”

Henrietta’s ma pointedly interjected, “Max, you said you were stunned? I’m guessing she used that one spell that kind of works like a police officer’s taser, maybe just a little weaker. Then, did you faint? Or were you just looking for a convenient excuse for Etta to be able to do the ritual?”

Even she knew that subtlety was important. “Ma–”

“I swear to you, Mrs. Wilkerson, I did black out. Somehow, I was lucky enough to get up just in time – thank the Lord – when she was still in her state. It was like something very, very cold was pressed onto my skin. It felt a little moist, like rain, but not quite. And there was no rain there anyways, so I can only assume what had happened.”

They were left to process the man’s words, and they were left with a glum reminder of what could have occurred, if they weren't so lucky. How close the young woman was to death. Then, Henrietta’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Shit. That means I wasn’t imagining it, after all.”

They both look towards Henrietta, unsure of how to proceed. What had she not imagined?

“Language,” her ma chastised, and it almost felt normal. Like her daughter was never possessed, and her son was still alive, and like they weren’t in the middle of a civil war inside of the wizarding community or that there wasn’t political unrest, out of it too.

“A ghost, a spirit, maybe? It was there. And I know who they are, I just can’t quite recall who the face belonged to. But–”

“But what, Etta?”

“Merlin, I was getting to that,” she rolled her eyes in fond exasperation, but continued talking. “The ghost, it was an upperclassman from school. I don’t exactly remember the ghost’s name, but I’m sure that it was in Slytherin. I know that much.”

Her ma grimaced, “Slytherin? Isn’t that the house with all those bullies?”

“Um, I guess that would be accurate, yeah.”

“You’re meaning to say,” Max concluded, talking as if he was speaking to an infant. “That it is very likely a Death Eater had possessed you?”

Her ma's breath stuttered, “I know you don’t like talking about it, with the state of things in the magical world, but a blood purist successfully took over your body, for over a year? The lot of you were at the culmination of war, and nobody managed to notice?”

Henrietta stiffened as tears began to form at the corners of her ma’s eyes. She doesn’t know how to comfort her, how to tell her it was okay. Maybe nobody recognized that she wasn’t the entity controlling her body – which stung a little bit, she could admit – but her ma wasn’t magical. How would she even think what had happened was a possession? Henrietta and Fredrick might have been in the wizarding world for years, but they still got surprised with the level of things wizards were able to do.

“No! That’s not what I’m trying to say. I think what happened was that the ghost was the one who shook Max awake, like the ghost had wanted to save me. It would make sense. Ghosts are slimy because of their ectoplasm, which fits with how Max described what he felt. Ectoplasm is moist, and can feel like rain. So it fits, doesn't it?”

“Are you sure? You just came to consciousness recently; you could still be confused about what’s going on. A death eater saving a muggleborn? It sounds unlikely to me.”

“Don’t patronize me, Maximus.” 

The young woman crossed her arms in front of her chest, while Max simply pursed his lips in clear annoyance.

“I know what I saw, and I know that the ghost didn’t want to hurt me. Can you say the same thing about the thing that was controlling me? It made me think that necromancy was the correct course of action. It didn’t care if I died in the process, which was a likely outcome. And if the death eater – if it was one at all – and wanted to harm me, it wouldn't have tried to wake you up. It would have killed me ages ago.”

“Fine,” he admitted. Hesitantly, he could follow her thought process, no matter how strange it might have been.

“But what was the thing that did possess you? Is it still out there?”

“I, I don’t know. The blood sacrifice seemed to actually pull it out of my body. Maybe, a combination of the runes served as a protection, of some sort, and it didn’t realize that. Or, what I think is more likely, the blood loss made me useless as a host, so it chose to untangle itself from me.”

“Oh Lord! Does that mean it could choose to come back to you? Are you in danger from it?”

Henrietta turned to her ma, before making eye contact with Max, and took in a sharp breath. “About that. . .”

“Oh my god, Henrietta Boyce, don’t you dare lie to me.”

“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll need to see a divinator about the spirit and how to get rid of it, but I should be fine. You should be too.”

“Is she telling the truth?”

“Yes, she is, it’s just,” Max hesitated. “Shouldn’t Mrs. Wilkerson have some sort of protection, too? The spirit could attempt to possess her, this time, since you couldn’t do it because you used your own blood. If it resides in her body, as a way to manipulate you into doing the ritual again, could you refuse it?”

There was a moment of silence before Henrietta replied to the question.

“That’s true,” she muttered. “I’ll get a protective charm for Ma. One for you too, if they have enough. I might need to go to multiple.”

“But you’ll be safe?” Mrs. Wilkerson was wringing her hands, showcasing one of her nervous tics.

From the corner of her eye, Henrietta had thought she had seen a swarm of crows flying outside of her window, but that was ridiculous. Animals and most muggles were repelled from the wizarding hospital through some intricately crafted wards, with there being a few exceptions when it came to muggle family relatives.

She had rubbed her eyes and the swarm was gone. Merlin, she was tired. She really needed to get more sleep.

“Yes, Ma. I’ll be safe. We all will be.”

* * *

_Unknown Location_

_Unknown Date_

Regulus came to be, face in the dirt.

He supposed waking up that man – Maximus, he remembered – was draining. He didn’t interact with any living thing for so long, he almost forgot how vibrant people were.

He also forgot how stupid they could be, too.

Necromancy, honestly! 

It was as if Wilkerson was asking to die a pointless death. Regulus had enough experience with those to tell that it was what it would be. Now, he just hoped that she was able to go to St. Mungo’s in time, and that the healers knew what to do. And, of course, that they didn’t meet any blood purists on their way.

Death Eaters could be easily avoidable, but there were a good many people who supported the Dark Lord’s cause, without involving themselves too deeply. 

It reminded him of Cissy and her unborn child. He wondered if he could have been the baby’s godfather, if he had managed to get out of the cave.

Regulus shivered, not only because of the cold, but also because of the life her baby was doomed to. The Dark Lord would most certainly win the war. He still didn’t know if the locket was destroyed, and until then, the Dark Lord had a safeguard for endless life. His cousin’s baby - _his own first cousin, once removed_ \- would be forced to take the mark when they were sixteen, then bound to serve till their death, like Regulus.

Wait. He backtracked his thoughts. What cold? He was a ghost; he didn’t feel temperature the same way humans do. That was, unless. . .

He turned his head and slowly opened his eyes, needing a few minutes to adjust. It had been a long time since he had last blinked away any dust from his eyelashes.

A trickle of water splashed over his legs and it left his pants, remarkably, _soaked_. His clothes were actually getting damp from the liquid, and he could even perceive the gradual change from solid muscle to frigid, trembling limbs.

_Oh no. This couldn’t be happening._

Merlin, he thought. He was actually alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahah i chose to split the first chapter cuz it honestly seemed tedious to have such a long first chapter. plus it just fits the flow a lil more. a sidenote! etta got her stomach "pumped" but that wasn't what was literally done. the healers just translated what they did to muggle terms, cuz honestly hearing your child would go through a cleansing ritual, like they were housing a demon, sounds absolutely _terrifying_ tbh. etta's possession basically made it look like she reacted to her brother's death in the opposite way cho did to cedric's, so while her personality might have changed, she was still likeable enough that her friends didn't quesiton it. 
> 
> kudos and comments give me life :]


	3. Questions that Remain Unanswered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, yes. I forgot.” the stranger paused. “You must usually be stumbling out of a pub. Where’d you end up last time? Hackney?”
> 
> Regulus continued to ignore the rude stranger. Muggles really were odd, and strangely talkative with people. Nevertheless, those they had never met. He would have to take a shower when he returned home, an extra precaution against muggle diseases and germs. He pulled his robes tighter around himself.
> 
> “One more question, and I’ll be out of your way. What year is it?”
> 
> “The _year_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added on 9/26/20 - clarify and make the non linear story telling a lil bit clearer. i kinda wrote the fic sporadically, as well as publishing it basically as soon as i finished writing a chapter. of course, when there might be confusion or not very understandable bc the flow is off. if u started reading before i published this fic, this chapter isn't necessary to read, but it might help to just _understand_ the events of the story better.

_29 Claremont Square_

_Islington, London_

_November 3, 1981_

You–Know–Who had fallen, yet nobody was any safer than before.

True, the _actual_ threat of a Dark Lord was gone, but it wasn’t like a terrorist group needed a leader to wreak havoc.

The police – she corrected herself, the aurors – had tried their best, but there were a multitude of people who were able to walk around, freely. The justice system always had its faults, she was sure. Who knew how many citizens they had thrown in Azkaban for the smallest hint of support for You–Know–Who? And the ones who caused the most harm – the rich, old money type of families – got to give a small bribe and remained at their comfortable homes, without a struggle.

Malfoy was a Death Eater, obvious with how he boasted and bragged back in Hogwarts about the mark. She remembered seeing it, in the common room, once. She couldn’t eat anything for dinner, that day. It felt like a waste of food if she was just going to throw it up.

Slughorn was ignorant, to think wealth alone was a satisfactory method to choose prefects. But Slughorn never cared more than for those connections, she had understood. She was confident that he never even learnt her name, with her lacking both of those valued qualities.

She would even like to say that she was helping send criminals to where they belonged, but that would be a lie.

Many of her potential clients behaved as if they were something of Death Eater sympathizers, themselves, even with most of them having a half–blood or muggleborn relative. The self–hatred ran deep.

Though, she wasn’t reporting that information to any government officials any time soon, either. Mostly because the people she was asked to follow, and research weren’t _actual_ Death Eaters – merely persons of interest to her clients – but also due to her needing the exorbitant amount of money the clients were willing to pay. Frugality was a quality that was worthwhile in war, not anytime else, something the wizarding government couldn’t fully understand.

She, Farzaneh Aziz, was an alumnus of Hogwarts and one of many muggleborns, paranoid that they would run into a stray Death Eater, lurking just around the corner. She was terrified that they would discover her lowly birth. The fear wasn’t unfounded.

She had been born to a world that contained no tolerance for anyone who was an “other”, and she was quite as unusual as they came, in the muggle world, anyways.

They were brown Muslims, in the middle of a town that seemed to be ready to preach a bible verse for any sort of situation. It wasn’t an exercise of the imagination to guess what their community thought of them.

While Maman was raised – adopted, actually, by a white family – in England, Baba’s words, spoken with a lilt, caused their neighbors to turn their noses at the family. It certainly didn’t help that the Aziz’s only child, Farzaneh, often created. . . small miracles. Miracles that would have institutionalized her in an asylum, only a short thirty years ago.

They weren’t coincidences, like bringing an umbrella with you to school, even if it was sunny, and needing it later on in the day, because it started raining. They were _real_. And they were _odd_.

People she disliked would have their shoes stuck to the floor, unable to make them even budge from their location. They would have to walk home shoeless, harsh pavement biting into their feet. Broken crayons and pencils were mended, when an onlooker shifted their gaze. They would then break as soon as Farzaneh moved on, almost like a temporary fix.

Her parents might not have given a second glance to these events, but the people around her did. It resulted in a lonely childhood, one she thought would be cured when she was eleven, and she first was told of Hogwarts. The school sounded like a dream come true.

However, her maman sat her down, a week before Farzaneh would have first stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. Before that conversation, she had thought that Hogwarts was the perfect escape from the horrid monotony of her life.

Instead, she had been told a very different tale, one that was distinguished from the beautiful peculiarity that her professors had told. Maman had told a story of prejudice and hatred and war. How she was given up because she showed no signs of magic. Why she had burn scars, and flinched at water, and had a history of broken bones, before she was adopted.

They were not from cooking accidents or a bad incident at the pool or falling from a tree. But they were all from a very long time ago, when Maman was younger than Farzaneh, herself.

Farzaneh remembered one line particularly well. “ _I’m glad they didn’t kill me in the process.”_

It was at that moment that she decided that she hated the concept of blood. Wizards were utterly nutters for thinking ancestry affected magical talent. Clearly, they did not understand the sciences at all, because magic was more like a mutation, rather than a special power. And she would be the very muggleborn to prove them wrong, that family had nothing to do with your power, your ability. But, of course, that plan went into the bin, when she got sorted into Slytherin.

She wasn’t sure if she was lucky, for her ambition was able to flourish, or that she was jinxed.

All intentions of proudly showing who really was superior were gone. It would be signing her execution warrant, to even bring up, to even _suggest_ that she didn’t have at least one wizarding parent. Farzaneh was no fool. She would have to assimilate to wizarding traditions with finesse, if she wanted the truth to remain hidden.

So, on September 1st, 1969, she became Farzaneh Aziz, humble half–blood. Her Maman was from a pureblood family, but had married a muggle, subsequently being excommunicated. They lived in muggle England because it was closer to her Baba’s job, and anyways, weren’t there other pureblood families who chose to do the same thing, for various reasons?

It was close enough to the truth, she had concluded, that she wasn’t lying. It was just an aversion. She remained inconspicuous enough for people to not question her, and that was enough. That was better.

After her graduation, she had started working for the Wizarding World News. It was easy enough to secure a position, by twisting the truth and creating connections to Maman’s disowned family. Nobody was all the wiser, not bothering to double check her claims. They should have guessed something was off, with her using a muggle camera and all.

They weren’t _her_ problem, though, and it wasn’t her fault that they were stupid and afraid. Besides, who didn’t learn how to live without a few lies added to the mix?

She had started doing freelance work soon after, because the salary for WWN wasn’t sufficient to support her parents, as it was commission based. That was, if she refused to publish sensationalist, lie–filled articles. And Farzaneh was much too proud to start doing that; Baba wouldn’t be happy if the money they used came from that, too.

Then, one night, she had a hand knocking on her door. You–Know–Who was dead, killed by a mere _baby,_ and she was expected to hand in an article about the victory for wizarding kind within three days. If that wasn’t a lot to take in, the details about what had occurred in Godric’s Hollow were a series of blows to the heart. The war might have been over, sure, but that didn't lessen the impact of all the horrible things that had happened during it.

The baby who had miraculously defeated You–Know–Who, who she began to call the Boy Who Lived, was left an orphan. His parents, Lily and James, people she could still recall being tiny little first years, had died.

Farzaneh thought the moniker was fitting, in a twisted, ironic sort of way. The nickname could also be used as a beacon, a ray of hope, though. A sign that things would truly be okay. And anyways, Harry Potter, she mulled over, was much too normal of a name for such an extraordinary child.

Obviously, the boy didn’t do much of anything by himself, but that wasn’t the relevant part. He had taken a killing curse and _survived_ , given a distinct lightning bolt scar – the shape of the rune for power, but also the wand movement for the curse. It was a two–sided coin: both a terrible remembrance of a terrible night and a scar that could never be healed.

Besides, would the wizarding world really be able to accept the darker, more realistic reason for the child’s survival?

In the current state of affairs, it would just serve as a hot button topic. Maybe Farzaneh was cruel enough to nominate a name for the young Potter, based on the night the boy became an orphan, but. . . she couldn’t force him into a life of doubt and suspicion.

Lily Evans, recently turned Potter, had something to do with her son’s survival. It was evident, with how easily the woman gravitated to the more unsavory topics in the restricted section during their school years. She tried not thinking about it. Farzaneh knew the books the Mrs. Potter were always legal, but always only barely. They were the kind of books that were _implied_ to be dark, but never described in that way.

But that was only because nobody wanted to talk about them in the first place.

Farzaneh had a feeling that unusual curiosity in such subject matters was a pivotal reason for Lily’s and Snape’s friendship. Severus Snape, another student in Lily’s year, was as pleasant as a newly born baby, that was to say, not at all.

He was a hypocrite and a blood purist, despite being born to a muggle father and pureblood mother, much like her own fictional backstory. Except, of course, his was true.

Snape didn’t even possess a teaspoon of charm. Consequently, he alienated most of Hogwarts and gained a public rivalry with Potter and his friends – people with more influence than him – because he was a fool. Unable to have ambition where it would actually help him and his relationships, he became a Death Eater from that desire to impress.

But if there was anything that kept Lily spending time with him, it would be their mutual interest in the less talked about arts. Only, Lily never did anything to hurt others; obvious with how their fight during Farzaneh’s seventh year had panned out. It was embarrassingly public and the Slytherins had mocked him for weeks. How could they not?

Nobody really liked each other in Slytherin, but everybody _hated_ Snape. That might have changed soon after that incident, with how he acted like a spurned lover and delved even deeper into the dark arts. Severus Snape was a fool alright, but she had filed it away for later use; after all, his prior treatment and the reasons why it stopped weren't necessarily important right then. 

Farzaneh quickly brushed the topic away, after a few hastily, scribbled lines.

If ordinary citizens started to think, or even uncover, the methods the mother had used, it was if they were given a golden ticket, saying: _hey, this is one free pass from death!_ No, it would be idiotic to even suggest such a thing. Lily’s involvement would have to be kept hush. Besides, there were no overt signs of any rituals or rites, nothing that could hint at the reality of the situation. They were safe from any such travesty, and the cleanup job was easy enough.

Instead, she had continued digging up the events that had acted out one fateful, October night. Sirius Black had betrayed the Potters.

He had betrayed the Potters. He had declared his guilt, in the typical bout of Black insanity; she shivered as she remembered the sound of his crooked shrieks of laughter.

And for what? For a genocidal monster that did not care for anyone, besides purebloods and an occasional, desperate half–blood? For the hopeless approval of a family he had claimed to have rejected? For the renowned Black family madness, that had taken over generation after generation of incestuous births – did he forget who was friend, and who was foe?

She simply couldn’t have understood the reasons for his actions, how easily he had assimilated with the rest of the Gryffindors, only to betray them in the end. Black ended up killing twelve other muggles, and his other, supposedly best friend, Peter Pettigrew, who found out about the deception. How much could have changed within the two years she spent in the workforce, when they were still schoolchildren?

It was not only shocking, but also disappointing. Following it, for the first time in a long time, Farzaneh thought about Black’s brother, Regulus, a Slytherin three years her junior.

He had died two years prior, a complete surprise for both sides of the war. From that tidbit, she had easily traced the source of his death, from rumors and gossip. Though, it wasn’t much of a surety as it was imagination.

He wasn’t killed in a Death Eater raid – by an auror or somebody from Headmaster Dumbledore’s group – but he also wasn’t killed fighting a Death Eater, either. People whispered that he had betrayed You–Know–Who – practically _treason_ – and had died for it. The puzzling part was that there was no body found – it was an empty casket funeral – so, how were they so sure he had passed away?

Nevertheless, it was a pity, she had resolved. He was always one of the polite ones. Didn’t even utter the word mudblood in the common room; always a little more cautious, a little more careful.

Her kettle of tea started whistling. Oh, her tea was done. And that was that. Regulus Black would not cross her mind for almost a year. Isn’t it funny, how easily people were forgotten?

* * *

_Unknown Location_

_Unknown Date_

After the amazement subsided, he was hit by an overwhelming sense of fear.

He was _alive_. And he had no clue what to do next. Regulus never expected to have made it this far! His mother would have chastised him for not having a hidden card, or three, left in his sleeve, ignoring the fact that most people didn’t have back up plans for if they miraculously returned to life, possibly years after their death.

Nonetheless, Blacks were nothing short of superior, even posthumously. It was a rigid expectation placed on the bloodline.

It made his current situation even more pathetic.

Regulus didn’t even know the state of the war, considering his only interaction in ages could barely be considered one at all. They hadn’t even seen him, and they were wizards. He now realized how possible, how easily it was that he was dreaming it all up.

But. . . there was an ache in his chest that felt so vividly real, there was no way he was able to create it from the crevices of his mind. Sirius was always the creative one.

He had confirmed he hadn’t completely gone mad, from inherited illness, though it was implausible to think it had actually skipped him. ( _Blacks do not have luck, they have will._ ) That was one check mark scribbled next to an imaginary to–do list. What next? Seeing the texture of a rock? That– That wasn’t that bad of an idea, actually.

The longing for touch, for taste, for even a breath of air was cruel. Ghosts were so very close to all of those things, and he was desperate to reach out for them, and every time they would be pulled away because unearthly bodies didn’t receive that same pleasure.

He must have been the only person, ever, to be able to say they were a human, a ghost, and an, assumedly, the _undead_. His current status is still unclear and will likely remain that way till he gets back to Grimmauld Place. Though, he must say, he had rather hated being a ghost. If he had a choice, this time around, he would most definitely not become one, not even a shade.

Gritting his teeth, he struggled to stand up from the shallow coast. He was outside the cave. He didn’t remember if he managed to get out of the cave, during his unconsciousness, or if he was just fortunate and managed to from outside of it.

Barely having the energy to stumble across, to a taller stone pillar, he had practically crumpled on the ground, again. His muscles had deteriorated since his death, he had lost his wand, and he had no energy to even move. It felt like all of his power was zapped out of him.

It was obvious the ritual Wilkerson had performed was the catalyst for his resurrection. After all, nothing else had happened since he became a ghost, but he didn’t expect this to be the result of such problem riddled practices. The woman had essentially created a new species of magical being, by _accident_.

Though, he wasn’t allowed time to be impressed, even if it was an amazing achievement, especially considering her family. He had to get back home, back to Kreacher, back to a life that has hopefully not changed too much.

Regulus dug inside of his robe pockets, hoping to find a sickle.

Of course, it wasn’t an ordinary coin. That would be quite frivolous, wanting to play with loose change when the entire world could be under the Dark Lord’s control. No, it was a portkey, one he had charmed during his fourth year. It was also illegal, but that mattered very little in the face of his reality.

And he did find the sickle. He briefly wondered how it had gotten there, especially since he had stopped carrying around the portkey after he had learned how to apparate. The trail of thought ended, however, as soon as it started.

He desperately needed the portkey to work, otherwise, he would be stuck in this dismal cave, until he died from dehydration. Regulus refused to let this chance; this promise of life to escape him. He might not particularly like living, but he hated being a spirit.

Holding onto the object, he activated it, and felt the nauseating pull of pressure. Then, he had left the dismal cave and collapsed onto a dry, patchy stretch of grass.

It was his first experience of fresh air; it was wonderful. Looking back, it was more than likely a horrible day, with the weather being unexpectedly crisp in summer, and the few rays of light disappearing into the clouds. Still, it was better than his previous habitation, by a lot. He would have laughed like a mad man, if he weren’t so afraid.

A few minutes must have passed since he had used the portkey, long enough for a stranger to walk up to him and question what he was doing. The stranger had bothered to go out of their way to interrogate him, even with bags in their hands.

“Um,” he stumbled. Woozy, he tried standing up, but miserably failed. Regulus had barely caught himself before trying to stand up, once more.

“Are you _drunk_?” the stranger – the very rude, _muggle_ stranger – accused.

“What? I’m not drunk!”

The stranger fixed an eyebrow at him, her headscarf covering the rest of the hair on her head, and said, “And you’re not staggering around either, because you haven’t had a pint of beer.”

Her insistence had started getting annoying, by then. He didn't understand why she was caught up in his drinking habits, especially with his consistent denial and lack of any.

Regulus huffed. “I’m not drunk, really.”

“Yeah, and I’m a witch.”

He was briefly stunned that a witch would so readily admit their existence to somebody who could have been a muggle. Then, he was struck with the fact that she was likely joking.

She peered at his face and Regulus wondered how he must have seemed, with a once dead body that was clawed at by a horde of inferni.

That didn’t even include the pale gloominess he had fallen into before that, spurred on by the stress of being a Death Eater and trying to just survive the war. He doubted that his sickly demeanor would have disappeared, considering how he was stuck in a cave for what he can only assume was for the past few months.

He would definitely be a sight to behold.

“I’m seriously not an alcoholic, and if I _was_ , it isn’t any of your business.”

“I live here. How is it not my business when a hoodlum pops up and faints on my neighbor’s lawn? People talk in London, even if,” she sniffed, “that may not be the case for wherever you lived. They must have rather not seen you.”

“It would be for the same reason you’re so afraid of your oh, so important reputation going to shambles. Must be the only thing you can rely on, here.”

He eyed her headscarf. Regulus was well aware of the prejudices that many muggles apparently share, even though he did not believe in them. Know thy enemy and all. He hoped that was enough to drive the woman away.

The stranger’s eyes had darkened, looking almost comically angry. “Fine then! Continue drinking at six in the evening! Be a complete bum!” She had started swinging her arms wildly, almost spilling the contents of the bags onto the ground.

Regulus made a quick examination of his surroundings and was surprised to see how different things were. There was something. . . happy about it. Like the darkness of the Dark Lord’s reign had finally been extinguished. That was practically impossible, though. More importantly, the place where his home should be harbored an unattractive looking building, which flickered into his sight like a badly done lumos charm.

He knew he had died, but this couldn’t be the right place, right? He _knew_ the location of 12 Grimmauld Place. Maybe the portkey had finally become faulty, after years of disuse, and it had taken him to the wrong neighborhood. It would be humiliating to have to ask a _muggle_ something, but nobody was here to see it.

“HEY! Wait!”

Her face was almost hidden, with her body inside of a huge, metal contraption, before she had whipped her face out, again. “What?” she questioned, bitterly.

“We’re in London, correct?”

“Did you not pay attention to me? I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t. . . Of course, we’re in London, in Islington if you want to get into the details. Where else could you be? No place is as smoggy as it is here.”

The wizard shrugged, “I just needed to be certain of it.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot.” the stranger paused. “You must usually be stumbling out of a pub. Where’d you end up last time? Hackney?”

Regulus continued to ignore the rude stranger. Muggles really were odd, and strangely talkative with people. Nevertheless, those they had never met. He would have to take a shower when he returned home, an extra precaution against muggle diseases and germs. He pulled his robes tighter around himself.

“One more question, and I’ll be out of your way. What year is it?”

“The _year_?”

“Did you not pay attention to me? Oh, _right_. In your words, I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t.”

The woman was offended at the blatant recycling of her words but rolled her eyes instead of starting another argument. “Well, if the alcohol addled your brain that much, I guess that I’ll have to tell. It’s 1982. New Year’s will be in a few months.”

He sucked in a breath. He had been dead for more than two years, almost _three_.

“Alright, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Then, he heard a loud clicking noise, followed by a dull roar from the mysterious machine. He couldn’t help but flinch at the sounds, after being surrounded by silence for months at end.

“What in Mer– what was _that?_ ”

She had a mixture of surprise and amusement etched onto her face, as if she no longer understood her original anger towards him. It was quite insulting, really.

“That was a car. An automobile, whatever. I never realized you could be absolutely barking, though. Who doesn’t know what a car is?”

The woman shook her head, chuckling softly, as if she was in on an inside joke, one that he _very_ clearly wasn’t in on. It shouldn’t have been so annoying, so mocking, for a trivial muggle to hold something above him, especially a muggle that was too interested in the people around them. It had reminded him of his life from before; gullible, lead around and naive. He hated being considered crazy or stupid, he hated it al so, _so_ much.

A look of concern passed through the woman’s face, but Regulus turned around. He pretended he didn’t desire to leer at someone who cared for him, without any ulterior motives. It doesn't bother him that the muggle would see him disappear into thin air. After all, the muggle repelling wards would be enough to confuse them and forget about their interaction.

He dragged his feet to the steps of what appeared to be his childhood home and he was almost appalled of the state of it.

Three years had gone by, without someone to take care of or live in it, and the house had essentially shriveled up to a husk of what it used to be. Grime decorated the wooden panels, as if it was a fashionable accessory, turning the color into an ugly shade of dirt–brown, instead of a rich black.

It had finally crossed into his mind: holy Morgana, his mother could be _dead_.

That would explain the state of the townhouse, if Kreacher had nobody to serve. It would make for a lonely existence, and an even lonelier life. He bets that his relatives easily forgot about Kreacher, creating a fury within him, angered at the people he was supposed to love to ignore his dearest friend.

He struggled to find the strength to use the knocker, but that turned out to be inconsequential, when he realized how it might seem for any of the possible _living_ inhabitants.

And on the off chance that his mother was still alive. . . She would demand an explanation for his vanishing act, and there was _no_ plausible rationale that he could string up within a few, quick seconds.

Rattled, he tried for the next option. It wasn't ideal, but it was necessary.

His hand plunged into his robe pockets, rummaging around for the house keys. Regulus desperately hoped they hadn't changed the lock since he had been gone.

Quickly – and successfully – unlocking the door, he took three long strides before collapsing.

"Fuck," he moaned.

A familiar snap of apparition rang against the room, and a subsequent and even more familiar, croaking voice could be heard.

"Who is daring to disrupt Kreacher's Mistress's rest? Poor Mistress Walburga, sick with grief. . ."

"Kreacher?"

A stony silence laid heavy, before he lifted his head, his eyes meeting his friend's.

"Master. . . Regulus?"

* * *

_Floor 3_

_Central Office for WWN_

_Highbury, Islington_

_December 17, 1981_

He rolled around in his chair, the weirdly expensive one that he brought from his home, outfitted in some sort of magical leather that she never cared to learn the name of. As per usual, she thought. Purebloods, _honestly._ They were always so lavish. And she was always so envious with how freely they used their money.

The chair was levitating a few centimeters off the ground, and Edgecombe clutched a pipe in his hand. The pipe was of the wizarding kind, made so that no smoke would come out of it. Though it was no less dangerous to a person’s health than its muggle counterpart, Farzaneh thought it could be even more so. Who knew the effects of it? Certainly not the wizards, with their complete lack of scientists.

Her nose crinkled with disdain, before she had stood up to open a window. She always hated those damn products, with her Babayi dying after a long battle of lung cancer.

An owl almost slammed into the glass panel, if she had not opened it in time.

They were honestly menaces. She had never understood why wizards and witches had used owls, of all birds, to carry their messages, and likely never would. The familiars were often brightly colored – strange in the dismal smog that overtook England – and were just another sign of the oddity and illogicalness that prevailed in the wizarding community.

Farzaneh offered it a small piece of burnt sausage, which she had bought on her way to work. It gratefully gobbled up the meat, before showing her a white letter, unusual and not resembling the normal yellowed parchment most wizards or witches used.

A muggleborn, obviously, had sent her a letter, but why? Farzaneh might be a muggleborn, herself, through and through, but that didn’t mean it was public knowledge. Nor was it something that could overpower her history in Slytherin.

If she had really wanted to erase her terrible time at Hogwarts, everything she had let happen because she rather let it be someone else instead of her. . . it would take more than clarifying her blood status. How many people could even understand how scary it was to be in Slytherin, in the actual den of snakes, at the height of pureblood fanaticism?

She unrolled the copy paper and walked back to her desk.

It read:

_Dearest Madam Aziz,_

_I have found your advert in the Wizarding World Newspaper. I could not find a hint that you had an alternative mailing address, and your home address was also not an option, obviously._

“You already got another job? For that weird thing you started, what was it?”

She glared at Edgecombe. She could admit that her freelance work was very generic – technically accepting of all commissions, actually – but looking over her shoulder and reading her letters was a life she preferred others not to cross. A preference that was built during her seven years at Hogwarts.

“It’s called the Aziz’s Do–It–All Agency. And go bugger off. Your article isn’t going to write itself.” she replied, rather waspishly. Then, she tried ignoring the exasperating man, trying to focus on planning a response to the request.

_Simply put, I will need you to do a long–term project. It will require investigation, as well as a great deal of commitment. However, I will make sure to compensate you handsomely. If you do succeed, I will forward you 1,200 galleons to your Gringotts account._

_Please send me a letter back, within the twenty–first, if you choose to accept this job. We can meet at the Ruddy Hippogriffs on the twenty–fifth to discuss the terms and the specifics of what you will be needed for. The contract can be written, then, too._

_A pleasure to work with you, if only you are willing._

_Yours,_

_Henrietta Wilkerson_

Farzaneh pondered the wording of the letter. It was strange, to say the least.

She did not understand what would be worth 1200 galleons, especially with something as clearly private as what Wilkerson had implied. The other woman had barely included any relevant details, but it was clear if she accepted the job it was something she had to solve or eventually die trying.

“Merlin’s saggy Y–fronts.” Clearly, still reading over her shoulder, Edgecombe’s voice edged to a whisper, “Wilkerson, she contacted you?”

The significance of this was rather lost on her. After all, she had very few magical relations in the first place, and while she was sure she had heard the woman’s last name uttered in the hallways of school, she could not attach a face to it.

She tilted her head, like a bird, one of the times she let her confusion become visible.

“My brother – you know Matthew, right? – well, he’s a mediwizard. Specializes in curses and residual magic and the like. Er–”

“What I see is that you continue to have a flair for the dramatic, and cannot get to the point, concisely, as you normally do.”

“The dramatic? Aziz, you would have to be insane to actually be considering it! She stayed at St. Mungo’s for a couple of months, but you know what the weirdest part about it was?”

“Obviously, I do _not_.” Her tone had gotten sharper, growing more vexed as the conversation went on.

His eyes resembled tennis balls, almost bug–like, with how stressed out about the situation he was. His words were frantic, as if it was really a problem if she actually took up the task. “She got sent in for. . . a very, _very_ dark ritual.”

“And that’s supposed to matter to me?” She demanded. “I basically eat kittens and puppies for breakfast, compared to an average wizard or witch. And I’m _tame_ compared to others from my house.”

Edgecombe’s mouth twisted into a miniscule smile, before it returned to its earlier, more serious expression.

“I know it might seem like over exaggeration, or that I’m trying to rob you of an extremely lucrative opportunity, but there are some things, some people that you have to avoid, even if you were a Slytherin. Maybe, _especially_ because you were one. Wilkerson stayed on the fourth floor and had to get treated for magical poisoning. Actual, intensive care. That’s why, you, of all people, should know the level of what dark things she has done.

“She claims that she doesn’t remember anything. . . but that’s impossible. Wilkerson got scot free because she was a muggleborn, and the aurors didn’t think anything was off with what she was saying, but,” Edgecombe sat up straighter in his chair and leaned closer to her. He looked around their office, likely looking for eavesdroppers. “I think it’s a load of poppycock.”

“You think she could have tricked veritasium? Aurors always use it for these types of things.”

“Not necessarily trick the potion, per se. She could bypass it by going _around_ the truth. Merlin knows how many Death Eaters did that, themselves, during their trials.”

“That’s– that’s insane!”

“Well, that’s the truth! Regardless of how horrible or ridiculous it may be, that's just how a lot of things are.”

“Then why is nobody in the government changing the procedure for the trials? It seems to me that it’s rather well known how easy it is to lessen the effects of veritasium. Surely, somebody must have written something on it?”

“Same reasons muggleborns and muggles are treated like hippogriff dung,” the man had shrugged, as if it was unpreventable. Maybe it was. Reporters were taken with a grain of salt when it came to actual, important things. “Do you think they want to admit that they were wrong? Or even that they have faults within the system?”

The words settled into her mind like fresh glue, filling up cracks of questioning and misunderstanding that had been chipped into her brain as her stay in the world of magic had lengthened. The mere glimmer of an explanation had given her a reasoning to the actions that had happened so far; something that she never truly got to experience.

As Farzaneh, she was still the ignorant muggleborn all those years ago. The same person who did not have answers and would be able to. However, as Farzaneh _Aziz_ she was a half–blood. Someone who was already supposed to have the knowledge about the culture and intricacies of the community.

There _were_ reasons for things, the same way her mother had chosen to get a job or how there was a small, tight–knit Muslim community in London. She simply never had the safety to review or ask about the ones in the wizarding world.

“So?”

“So _what_?”

“Tell me you won’t take it up.”

She sniffed dismissively, “You’re not my keeper, Edgecombe.”

“No, I am not,” he agreed. “I’m telling you this because you’re my friend, really, the only other decent writer in the whole newspaper. It would be very boring if you disappeared due to mysterious circumstances.”

“Indeed.”

What had started as anger had transformed into amusement. Farzaneh even had trouble stifling a smile. Yet, Edgecombe’s face looked expectant. Paused, as if waiting for the inevitable. When his happiness started to dim, it soon became apparent what the man was looking for.

“Right, of course. I won’t agree to the case.”

He gave her a thumb’s up. “I knew you would see to reason! Just make sure to remember, Aziz, a person doesn't have to be as obvious as some of your snake friends to pin things on other people.”

The atmosphere had returned to its typical serene silence, filled with the sound of quills scratching paper and the occasional groan of annoyance.

Everything was fine. Everything would be fine, she repeated like a mantra.

There was no need to accept the request, because even if she did all types of work, she had the flexibility to choose what she worked on. It was necessary, considering _how_ she wrote up the contracts between her and her client.

So, yes. There was nothing that forced her to take it up. Nevertheless, a dangerous sort of feelings pervaded her brain. Farzaneh was well aware of its meaning; uncertainty was what destroyed dynasties and wrecked relationships, what finished families and killed lovers. It was a vicious, wild thing, and it would be foolish to think less of a simple, small feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes reg is pretentious and a blood purist, and is not necessarily a good person, even tho he did defect. it's more like this [meme](https://mischief-marauders.tumblr.com/post/617055421628383232/regulus-black-being-a-death-eater-but-quitting?is_related_post=1). like he might have defected, but ignoring the fact that reg genuinely believed in all of that pureblood shit is almost an insult - it's ignoring two things, in my opinion. the fact that kreacher _really_ was that important to him 
> 
> (and i realy dislike the popular hc that he was ordered to kill sirius and that was when he was like 'nope, i'm out kinda' like it infuriates me lmao. you _can_ choose to hc. i just find the implication that they don't think that his relationship with his kreacher, someone we see really adore and love regulus, wasn't strong enough to betray the dark lord... rude. like a house elf could never be that important in canon, even tho kreacher's devotion to his master, and arguably his friend, caused him to lead his fellow house elves to battle in the battle of hogwarts?? hello?? and this is the same house elf who basically sold out sirius to bellatrix. OK RANT OVER IM SRY ;-;) 
> 
> and also that horcruxes are seriously seen as the worst possible thing a wizard could do. . .which is what voldemort did. like why was it seen so bad?? religion?? spirituality (which ties into religion)??? beliefs on the soul??? def smtn that isn't talked about that much but is rly interestingly explored in [this fic!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236525/chapters/30277410) i genuinely adore it sm bc reg is both amazingly strong as well as stupid. . . because he's 18. and i love that.
> 
> ahhh this was a long author's note. anyways kudos and comments give me life :]


	4. The Price that Will Have to be Paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Legilimency,” the house elf accused. “You is much different than the Master Regulus Kreacher knew.”
> 
> “I had a lot of time to think,” Regulus admitted.
> 
> “But how did you not age? That’s impossible even if you is not dead, unless the tapestry had lied, which it does not.”
> 
> “Damn it,” he murmured. There was no easy way to get out of this discussion, not when lying would have much worse consequences to deal with later. “I did die. You were with me when that happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied/referenced child abuse

_12 Grimmauld Place_

_Islington, London_

_Unknown Date, 1982_

Kreacher flinched when he saw him. Regulus was left unsettled by the reaction; it felt _wrong_ , it was something Kreacher would do to Sirius, _not_ him.

“Who _dares_ to impersonate my late Master?”

He stilled and let out a confused yelp.

Wait, what? This was _not_ how he had expected their reunion to go, like it was his brother’s home coming, instead of Regulus’s. He imagined that there would be a lot more happy bawling from Kreacher, and they would hug, and then Regulus would learn that Kreacher had successfully destroyed the locket when he was gone. Though, it didn’t have to be in that particular order. He must have forgotten the fact that he was dead for. . . years. Three, to be exact.

“Wait!” he threw up his arms to show he was wandless, basically a muggle. He couldn’t even hurt a flobberworm. Not that there would be any, lying about in their home. No, Kreacher was much too good a housekeeper for that to happen. Sure, it was currently in disarray, but his mother could have died by now, leaving Kreacher all alone in their terrible house. “It’s actually me, it’s Regulus!”

“That is what an imposter would say! My _real_ Master Regulus died years ago. Who is you?”

“No– I’m not se– I’m not lying! I can tell you something only the actual Regulus Black would know, which I am. L– like how about. . . my last command? Nobody else was there, with us, and I ordered you to not tell any of the family.”

Kreacher still looked skeptical of his claim but nodded. His hand remained stretched out in front of him, ready to use his magic against Regulus.

“It was in the cave – the one that I had sent you to with the Dark Lord, which I regret so, so much – and I asked you to hand me the miserable potion. I demanded you to give it to me, even if I begged you not to afterwards. And– and, I asked you to get rid of the locket, once and for all.”

His friend gasped and ran over to embrace him. Regulus supposed he had managed to convince him of his identity, even though the house elf had no reason to be skeptical, in the first place.

Kreacher was able to shake off whatever feeling that had originally covered him, and happiness overtook his wrinkled, aging face. He felt much more comfortable with the latter expression on his friend's face, with a grin of his own threatening to spill over his own mouth, as well.

Tears were leaking out of his bulbous eyes, snot was beginning to drip out of his nose, and his fingers were shaking, as they cautiously fluttered around Regulus's face. Regardless, Regulus didn't think he would want to be with anyone else.

He missed Kreacher, like one would miss a limb. Loneliness felt even more magnified without his ever–loyal companion.

There were times, when he was on the brink of calling Kreacher's name. To see if house elf magic had worked, when the elf’s master was technically dead, but their master’s soul refused to depart from the world. He had enough restraint not to do so, for many varying reasons.

In the possibility Kreacher could come at his beckoning, the house elf would be forced to see the only burial place Regulus would ever have, but fortunately that was not the case any longer. Even more, it was the potential burial place for Kreacher, himself, if Regulus hadn’t ordered him to come back after he had completed the Dark Lord’s task.

Regulus doesn’t imagine him cruel enough to force Kreacher through that _again_. He could never hurt a house elf, not when it could be avoided; that was always more up his cousin’s horrible husband’s alley. Cissy had horrible taste in men; like most Blacks, he supposed.

And the other, much more reasonable possibility, would pain him too much. To be so clearly, evidently _(almost)_ alive, yet unable to even see Kreacher – that would simply be too tragic.

Now, his dear friend was right next to him. He could feel the warmth emanating from the other’s body, and oh Merlin, he had missed this. The feeling of life.

It startled him, again, how he had _actually_ escaped death. Regulus had died, but was alive, once more. He had done something even his previous master could not hope to obtain, or at least not to the same extent, no matter how he could try. Part of it laid with how the Dark Lord would never choose to remain as a ghost. That would be just embarrassing, pureblood beliefs or otherwise.

After regaining his thoughts, he decided he had to ask. Regulus couldn’t wait any more time to find out what happened. “Is Mother,” his voice cracked. “Is she still alive?”

“Oh, yes,” Kreacher started blubbering. “Mistress is. But she is so unwell, she is being sick ever since Master Regulus has left.”

That was a relief, somewhat. Only somewhat, because there was a small part of him, something almost nonexistent, that desires her death. To be liberated from her presence. He was a horrible, _horrible_ son, and he knew it. Regulus should be overjoyed that he could interact with his blood family once more, but. . . he didn’t want to.

Would his mother even be okay with his betrayal of all their traditions, their customs, their livelihood? Even if it was the right thing to do? If it meant protecting Kreacher?

No, she wouldn’t. He reasoned, it wouldn’t help him to start a disagreement with one of his parents, just as he was coming back to normality. It also wouldn’t help to deal with her, at the time, if he was still struggling how to explain his actions so she wouldn’t explode with piercing screeches, when he appeared in front of her.

Perhaps, it was an excuse to put their reintroduction off, but it was a logical one.

“I’m not going to let her know I’m alive. Not yet, anyways.”

“But Master Regulus! Mistress is–”

“No,” he coldly refused. “I’m not going to do it. Mother wouldn’t understand _why_ I chose to do what I did. She is going to be very upset that you kept it from her, and I would prefer that you remain safe, throughout all of this.”

The house elf stared at him, as if he was making no sense whatsoever or as if he was behaving like a stranger, which was ridiculous. Regulus _did_ make sense, just in a very contrived way. In a way his bubbling thoughts have changed his personality. Isolation would do that to anyone, though, even to those with braver souls than his.

Kreacher repeated, “Mistress is ill. The family healer is saying Mistress might not live much longer.”

That slightly changed things. But at the same time, nothing. So, still. . .

“I’m sorry, Kreacher, but I don’t think I can face her. I don’t know what happened in the three years I was,” Regulus paused. “Absent. However, I _do_ remember what she was like before then; a tendency to socialize and gossip. I can’t risk my secret getting out, not when it would mean the Dark Lord deciding to kill her and then, me. Especially not when he might realize what didn’t happen to you, and murder _you_. Or, He might make Bella go and do it.”

“Alright,” Kreacher hesitantly agreed. He remained subdued for a moment, before a flash of realization passed through his face. The house elf grabbed onto Regulus’s arm and dragged him to the tapestry room. It was not in his position to question what his masters felt, but. . . there was something rather off about the situation. Wizards didn’t reappear years after their death, _just because_.

“Why did you take me here? We’ve talked about how it’s a useful piece of history with genealogy and all, very well made too, but–”

“The family tapestry never lies.”

“Oh,” he realized. “Oh! Kreacher, you’re a genius! Any part of our extended family could see me, but still think I was dead because the tapestry says that I’m not. And it’s not as if the tapestry would be able to realize that I’m still alive–”

“The family tapestry _never_ lies. Master Regulus is being dead. How did you come back? You is looking like Master Regulus when you was eighteen. How? Unless, you is not Master Regulus, you feels much too like the Dark Lord’s magic. _Imposter,_ give Kreacher one reason not to doubt you.”

Regulus swallowed back down his fear. “Kreacher, I’m sure you don’t need to know the details, it was nothing really.”

“No! Kreacher is wrong to think you was the true Master Regulus. He has died, you is trying to take advantage of Kreacher, because Kreacher is a good, loyal house elf. What is you using? Polyjuice? Is you a metamorphmagus?” His friend’s eyes narrowed. “Is you from that blood traitor, disgrace of a Black?”

It was downright weird to experience Kreacher talking to him so harshly. That manner of behavior had always been reserved for Sirius, the only family member Kreacher could never stand.

“I _am_ Regulus, the one you helped raise since I was a babe. How else could I get into Grimmauld? Only blood–born Blacks or select people can enter here. I rather doubt there are that many Blacks left who would be willing to tell me about the location of their ancestral home – that would just be Sirius and Andy – and how else would I know about our last conversation, before I. . . left?”

“Legilimency,” the house elf accused. “You is much different than the Master Regulus Kreacher knew.”

“I had a lot of time to think,” Regulus admitted.

“But how did you not age? That’s impossible even if you is not dead, unless the tapestry had lied, which it does not.”

“Damn it,” he murmured. There was no easy way to get out of this discussion, not when lying would have much worse consequences to deal with later. “I did die. You were with me when that happened; you were there when the inferni drag me under. But. . .”

Kreachers’s eyes remained steadfast on his figure. His face remained passive but positioned himself so he was ready to deal with Regulus appropriately, if Regulus did not give a satisfactory answer. Merlin knew how that would result, with Regulus being the undead, and technically relinquishing his ownership of Kreacher to the next living relative, which he guessed was his mother.

Ugh, he hated talking of Kreacher as if he were an object. Wizarding society was quite backwards when it came to certain things, creature rights being one of them.

“I didn’t cross the veil. I stayed here, as a shade.”

His friend looked unsure of the whole situation, which was understandable. He pointed out, “Ghosts that do not die possessing something will never be able to do so. They will remain as a specter. If you did possess Master Regulus’s form, why is you not coming back earlier?”

“Yes, that is true. That’s why I’m not possessing my. . . original body. I got involved in a necromantic ritual, though. It was what forced my soul back to my body.” Regulus joked, “I don’t think that was what they were trying for, though!”

Kreacher did not laugh. “Tell Kreacher something else, something only Master Regulus would know.”

He understood what his friend was trying to do, asking a general question instead of a specific moment. If he wasn’t the real Regulus, there was no way to use legilimency on Kreacher to find out the moment that Kreacher himself was thinking of. That would practically expose him as a fake, and as someone who was lying to Kreacher the whole time. Although he was legitimate, he could admit it was an effective plan.

“When I was seven, Sirius got in trouble for breaking one of Mother’s charmed vases. It was charmed to insult everyone who tried to touch it. He got lashed, but he said he didn’t do it. Nobody believed him, obviously,” Regulus stopped, for the melodramatic effect. “He was right, though. I broke it when I was flying with my broom indoors, even after Mother told us not to. You were there with me, when I broke it, so I made you promise that you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Regulus was ready to see Kreacher react violently. Instead, he returned to his prior state, full of sappiness and tears. It was certainly a welcome change in demeanor. It felt wrong to have Kreacher mistrust him, to not even think that he was telling the truth about his name. Regulus was overjoyed that Kreacher was willing to accept the reason for his coming back to life. He wasn’t sure how else to tell what happened.

“You is Master Regulus!”

He softly replied, “That’s right, I came back.”

It took a few minutes for Kreacher to return to a calmer state. Regulus is both a bit affronted and proud of Kreacher being so cautious, especially in the ridiculous situation they were in, now. He would have made a wonderful Slytherin, with that keen sense of paranoia, Regulus absentmindedly thought.

“What will Master Regulus do, now?”

“I– I will need you to take me to Father’s study, please. Did the wards fade away yet? I know Father was talented with ward building, but I never got to examine them too deeply, because of everything that was going on.”

His father’s study had been a mystery to him, when Regulus was much younger and much more terrified of everything. But it also contained many books, grimoires of family and darker magic, ones that would have been taken by the Aurors, if they ever tried to look through the house. That was, if they were able to locate the hiding spots _for_ the hiding spots.

More importantly, however, was that it contained Father’s wand. As was tradition in the Black family, wands would be held by a wizard’s living predecessors. Oftentimes, this meant that their spouse would be given the tool, and it would later be given to a grandchild, or something of the sort.

He knew other families – the Weasleys, for instance – did the same thing, not because of pureblood traditions, but out of necessity. It was sort of gentrified, for the wealthy and the poor doing the same things, for very, _very_ different reasons.

But Regulus would need a wand, if he wanted to. . . try out something. He had a niggling suspicion that something was off, and the only way he would be able to determine it, for sure, would be with one.

“Yes! Yes, of course!” Kreacher was shaking his head with a newfound vigor. Regulus assumed some of it came from not having to deal with Regulus’s mother, for once. The house elf puffed out his little chest, “Master Orion’s study is kept in perfect shape! Everything that was there from when he was alive, is being there.”

“Ï hate to ask you of this, but I’ll need you to take me there. I have barely any energy at all.”

Kreacher looked ashamed. He must have realized how draining the whole situation was for Regulus. Kreacher was always so attune to other people’s emotions, something that likely came from having to serve people like Walburga and Orion Black for almost sixty years. There was no other way to deal with them. Blacks tended to be emotional and have fragile pride.

All Regulus wanted to do was sleep, but if his head touched a pillow, would he ever be able to wake up? Would he ever be able to stop dreaming? Would he be willing to not lose himself to the tantalizing act of slumber, to eventually end the ignorant peacefulness? It was obvious. He wouldn’t be able to, so he couldn’t, not yet, when he still had work to do. What was being a ghost for three years compared to this?

The house elf took Regulus’s hand and apparated away, so they were right next to the said room’s door.

“Thank you,” he said. “Could you attend to Mother, now? She must need somebody by her bedside.”

The _goodness knows nobody else in our family would it_ part was left unspoken, but heavily implied. Blacks did not attend to such blatant, humiliating emotion, not even on peoples’ deathbed.

His friend nodded and Regulus continued to stare at the study’s door.

This was a much larger hurdle than he had originally thought. It almost felt wrong to walk in and act like he was the head of the house. Maybe it was the imbalance of power, when both of them were alive. His father always felt larger than life, somebody who could be relied on, regardless of the circumstance; yet, he was also someone who chose to speak the fewest words as possible, preferring to let his actions do the talking.

Regulus shivered. If the best choice of action was actually using those cursed canes – literally, they were cursed by Licorus Black, an older ancestor of his – on his sons when they misbehaved, the world was quite shallow with its thinking and logic. It wasn’t even what his father used most of the time, but it was enough, enough to remember the feeling, the fear. And it wasn’t even like his father only relied on corporal punishment, sometimes using emotional manipulation for his own ends. It was weird to reflect on their relationship, when there could never be any apologies between them. He doesn’t know if he would be willing to accept it.

He knew he wasn’t a coward just because of that, but shame still swept through him.

Now, though, Orion Black, his ever so imperial Father, was dead. What did he have to fear? The answer was actually a lot, but bollocks to it all. He turned open the door, using the enchanted knob. It was spelled to hex anyone who was not welcome to the room, but tried going inside of it, anyways.

Inside, its elements looked almost boring. Disappointing, really. It did not have the same feeling of intrigue or mysteriousness as it did when he was fourteen, when he last came into this room. The last time being the day after Sirius ran away. Lucky bastard.

Regulus never entered the room after that. He was actually good at understanding the meaning of one of their lessons, unlike _some_ people.

Sirius would call it cowardice, but Regulus would call it survival.

The room was dressed in the same, dull, dreary colors as the rest of the house. Clearly, aesthetic appeal was forsaken for tradition. Something he would have to admit he didn’t understand the reasoning behind. The dark greys just looked tedious, at this point. That could be the experience in the cave talking, though.

He stepped in. He couldn’t afford to waste his time and be so focused on the irrelevant details of a room he had always despised.

Eyes scanning the background, he stopped when he remembered where the desk was located. Second drawer from the bottom, if he recalled correctly, was his mother’s favorite place to put her knick knacks. Normally, a spouse’s wand would be placed on a mantelpiece, or other elaborate location, but he doubted that anybody would be coming to their home recently. No need to showcase it if nobody was going to visit.

There was only a nasty, old woman and a house elf to keep them company. If Kreacher wasn’t here, he thought he wouldn’t have come back to Grimmauld either.

The drawer refused to open. Regulus pushed and pulled, but it did not budge, not even a centimeter. What in the name of Merlin was going on?

Things in Grimmauld were made to last. They did not get jammed or dirty, as only members of the Black family could use them; mudbloods couldn’t get close to them, even if they tried. The trend of enchanting their belongings started long ago, when the house was first formed. Back then, there were a great number of thieves running around, especially those who wanted to get a hold of their rarer possessions.

So, his father had continued the style, though maybe being more paranoid when going about it.

Orion Black had been obsessive about defensive wards and enchantments. On top of making Grimmauld Place unplottable, as it had been for decades, his father erected numerous curses and jinxes, making it practically impossible for unwelcome visitors to stumble in. They also wouldn’t make it out of the house, alive, if they did happen to come inside.

Regulus _should_ be able to open a stupid drawer. A possibility floated to the front of his mind. . . it wasn’t possible for _that_ to be true, was it?

He sighed. There was a lot of research he needed to do.

* * *

_Healer Break Room_

_St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

_August 8, 1982_

Henrietta had been last possessed on the day of You–Know–Who's death. There was absolutely _no_ way that was a coincidence.

She was no seer, or prophet, or dealt with any special talents when it came to divination, though she wishes she had, sometimes. Being a seer sounded _so_ cool! But she knew that accidents or things of happenstance did not happen in the wizarding world. Spirituality played a large part of it.

Gods and spirits and ghosts were only beliefs for muggles. For wixen, however? It was the complete opposite.

They were a part of daily life, as certain as the idea of gravity, or waves of light, or magnetism were to her ma.

It had shaken her, at first. Knowing just how close wixen were to living _Gods,_ but even how they had their own limits. Still, they were able to live in the mortal world, even after their death, something that would be impossible to a muggle. They had realms of possibility that just could never be to those without magic; something she thought was rather unfair, as if they weren't automatically on a higher playing field. Though that didn't make them better, merely different.

In any case, with how muggle technology was evolving, magic would quickly become obsolete. No fault of the wixen of today, of course.

They had just imposed their own set of rigid, unnecessary rules that had limited them beyond belief. To some extent, Henrietta understood their concern and fear of being discovered, but they acted as if they were in a telly drama, one her Ma loved to watch. Like muggles really would strap a wixen into a surgical table and slice them open. It was rather silly of them, to be so _sure_ that it would be the case. Self-importance made them blind to the obvious, sadly.

That was why Aziz was so trustworthy.

While the older Slytherin was, well, a Slytherin, she had incorporated muggle technology into her career exceedingly well. Her photos were always much clearer than that of the corresponding wizard's, and only suffered the drawback of not having moving pictures. Half the time, moving pictures weren't even necessary, so the drawback wasn't much of a drawback, in the end. Besides, the _almost_ illegal sense of the investigation wasn't questioned about; probably because it wasn't even close to the worst things Aziz's clients had wanted her to do. It was kinda nice, especially because the less other people knew about it, the better.

She didn't really understand _why_ a pureblood would be so willing, and so easily use a muggle device, but she didn't care enough to question it. Aziz was likely just muggle–raised, with her parents dying during the war against Grindelwald. Perhaps, or rather more likely, _with_ Grindelwald.

Again, she did not choose to question it. Why ask questions for things you knew the answer to?

When the other woman walked into her break room, one day, she did not expect to finally be given evidence that something was amiss on her last day of possession.

It had been a few months before her ma and Max were begging her to let go of the investigation, what they thought were her last thoughts of Fredrick. She could never forget him, though, and she could never forget the ghost, either. Henrietta was sure that the ghost she had seen had saved her, and there was no way to thank it enough.

Literally. There was _no_ way to talk to the ghost, which was a problem, when that was the first thing she wanted to do. Who knew how long she would have been possessed, otherwise?

Neither Henrietta nor Max had remembered how to get to the cave, with Henrietta being technically unconscious for the whole endeavor. Max, while conscious, had sidealonged, and did not remember any important details to get back to it. Originally, she had been furious about his apparent disinterest with an almost acidic fervor. After a long, intense discussion with him, she realized that she would be dead otherwise.

She had no choice but to compromise and level her agitation. She had to be bearable to be around, even if she did not prefer to behave like that.

Still, that did not mean that she had to stop her search completely.

So, she had continued her studies as a researcher, with an applied focus on healing, because she didn't want to waste her time to study a different set of N.E.W.T.S. Why bother when she still had the muscle memory for the proper reaction for when a wizard has been diagnosed with dragonpox?

Graduating with honors and getting a flattering teacher recommendation, it was easy enough to secure a position in St Mungo's. Brown nosing Slughorn for years had ultimately proved its worth when she had landed with Madam Renshaw, who she spent a hard-earned two years for her mastery, before her ultimate transfer to the hospital. After a few months at the hospital, she allotted a portion of her salary to a detective. The said person would have to be quick, updated and easily blend in, all of which had fit Farzaneh Aziz so perfectly, she imagined it was a real miracle.

Aziz was a puzzle piece that fit so well together with her, like the stars were aligned just for them. It was almost _unsettling_ , how little struggle they had between them.

The detective had grabbed her by the arm and had said, “We need to talk.”

Henrietta’s coworkers – the other mediwitches and mediwizards, as well as the occasional doctor – all giggled. She presumed it had to do with how the other people in her workplace assumed their relationship was something more illicit, and that was why they never talked in a room filled with other people. Hippocrates even _winked_! That bastard!

While it certainly was illicit, it just was not in the way others had thought. Technically, withholding information about potential and untried Death Eaters, people who were seen as terrorists by the law, was very, very illegal. A minor detail, she had managed to convince herself.

Of course, it would make more sense if she had revealed the Death Eater that she was looking for had saved her life, but that would also mean she would have to reveal her suspicions on how the ritual had actually worked. And she seriously could _not_ afford that. The difference in successful dark magic and attempted dark magic was vast, in the eyes of the authorities. Surprisingly, so.

The runes on her notes, which she discovered in her bedroom, and what she had written on Halloween were practically a breakthrough in the field. Practically, because there was no morally ambiguous method to verify them.

Theoretically, they would work to create an agreement between the wixen and the dead body, making the corpse effectively be a slave for the wixen, which was already possible with normal necromancy, but also giving it consciousness. A bit like giving the corpse a functioning soul, even though that meant it would only be the bare minimum of one; an imprint, akin to that of a ghost's. However, she hadn’t finished the circle in the actual day of reckoning, thus changing the effects of the ritual. Henrietta was unable to remember what exactly she had drawn, so that quickly led to a dead–end.

She also didn’t want an inferius servant at her beck and call, so maybe that part was also a good thing. However, it did frustrate her what likely would be her greatest accomplishment as an arithmancer came from when she was _possessed_. How dare a mere spirit be better than her in her _own job_.

She followed Aziz to a small closet; likely not the best location to quell rumors, but at least nobody would try to follow them in there. Besides, her break wasn’t long enough to leave the premises of the hospital. She had no idea why the spirit who possessed her was so willing to leave her in a job with such hard hours, and such _little_ pay. That absolute asshole.

Aziz locked the door with a quiet _colloportus_. An excellent idea; they could tell if someone was trying to get in. Very few people in St Mungo’s practiced wordless magic, as it relaxed the patients to _know_ what was going on around them.

“I found who you were looking for.”

Henrietta’s jaw dropped before she was able to even control her reaction. This either meant that Aziz found the ghost, which meant she found the cave, but that would be impossible. Henrietta never mentioned the person was a ghost, only referring to them as a person. That would be impressive if Aziz _did_ find the cave, but she was sure. . . Aziz found them as a human.

There were basically no leads on the cave, with the only thing Henrietta could remember about it was a stormy, gray sea. That did not narrow down any potential locations.

“I–,” her voice cracked. “Do you have a picture of them?”

“Have I ever failed you? Am I paid far less than I should be earning? Did I think you were looking for someone you could never find?”

She stared blankly at the other woman, half due to surprise, because Aziz _never_ joked with her, and half because she wasn't sure if it was a joke or not.

Aziz sighed. “Yes. I took a picture of them. Just one, though. They were. . . very suspicious. And very angry. But, on the plus side, they knew nothing about muggle inventions. Didn’t even recognize what an automobile was.”

“Oh, that’s good, I guess. Could you–”

Rolling her eyes one more time, Aziz wordlessly handed her the picture.

The picture showed a man with damp, black hair. He had a look of utter superiority, as if he knew that he was worth more than any of the people around him. But it was all marred by deep, red scratches that could be seen on his chin and neck. A black robe covered most of his body, but Henrietta could only assume where else the wounds were.

Most importantly, his face matched that of the ghost’s. _This_ was the person she was looking for.

“You know, if you told me you were looking for Regulus Black, I could have finished the assignment much earlier.”

She looked up from the photo. She had been much too focused on that she was right – the ritual had worked, and now she could find out how to contact him. He had to be known by somebody, right? If there was anything Slytherins had, it was connections.

“Pardon me, Reginald what?”

Aziz’s eyebrows raised. She repeated, “Regulus Black? That’s the name of the man. Quite pretentious really, but that worked in favor, for once.”

“Black? Is he related to _that_ Black? The right–hand to You–Know–Who?”

“Is he related– they’re brothers!”

“That can’t be! I don’t remember seeing him at Hogwarts, and Blacks _always_ attend Hogwarts! And he looks almost my age. I must have heard rumors about him, at least a few times, with him being a Black.”

“Look, Wilkerson, I don’t know what you’re playing at. I was in Slytherin, and I know he was at Hogwarts too. He was quiet, but he was there. Black got into the quidditch team during his third year, or something. He studied at the same school as us and he most definitely was in the main branch of the Black family.”

Henrietta began to shake. How was that possible?

She knew the ghost had an uncanny resemblance to the mass murder and the female Lestrange, but for them to be so closely related? And that was without starting to talk about how the ghost – Regulus – had _saved_ her. A muggleborn. Blacks didn't do that, they simply didn't.

“But you know what’s really intriguing to me?” Aziz tapped her fingers on her arm. “He was declared dead in an obituary in multiple newspapers. Yet, you don’t even know his name, you don’t even know he was one year your senior, you don’t even know that he was said to be a _Death Eater._ The one thing you do know, maybe the only thing you told me about the case, was that he was a Slytherin. And he was _alive_. You want to know what I have also heard?”

She blanched. This should have been an open–and–shut case, something that she would pay Aziz for and then part ways. Nothing was going according to plan. Not like there was much of one to begin with.

“A little birdy told me that you were in St Mungo’s for almost a month. No, don’t try to say something smart, like how you work here.”

Aziz put a hand out, as if to stop her from mumbling out an explanation. Henrietta’s face reddened. She hadn’t meant to be such an open book, especially if she wanted to maintain her position against Aziz. The discussion was only becoming worse and worse for her.

The other woman jabbed her chest with a finger. “The little birdy said you practiced dark magic. Now, wouldn’t that be something ridiculous? An itty–bitty Hufflepuff doing dark magic? But we both know about Barty Crouch, Jr., and wasn’t he once an itty–bitty Hufflepuff like you?”

She paused, but there was no time for Henrietta to find her way out of the mess. Henrietta was already captured in her delicately spun web.

“Do you know how this sounds? The first person: a man who was declared dead. I watched his mother weep; there is no way she would willingly fake such emotion. Mrs. Black was both a Slytherin and a Black. Next, there’s another woman who obsessively looked for the dead man, without knowing who he was.

“Said woman was stuck for messing up a dark ritual. Said woman was also not surprised, whatsoever, that the man was once dead, but somehow walked to his home, alive. Yes, it's quite _odd_ that the surprising thing to you was that he attended Hogwarts and that you didn’t know of him, not that I saw a supposedly dead man walk.”

Aziz’s eyes peered directly at Henrietta’s.

“You resurrected him, Wilkerson. I’m not leaving till you give me a proper explanation. And if you don’t, I’ll be going to the DMLE with that photo. It will give me some good money, something you clearly aren’t willing to pay for.”

Frightened at the very real consequences that could happen, Henrietta carefully took out her wand from her pocket and thought, _incendio, incendio, incendio_. . .

After a few tense moments of silence, the photo had caught on fire, and she dropped it onto the ground.

The other woman merely smiled and did not bother putting out the fire. She practically purred out, “Oh, darling. Did you really think I only had one copy? And I thought you were almost clever. The gemino charm was always _so_ useful for me.”

* * *

_St George’s Church_

_Esher, Surrey_

_August 10, 1982_

The doors bite. Regulus learnt that the hard way. He made sure not to forget that particular lesson, like all other things in his life.

There was no way to continue staying at Grimmauld Place without alerting his mother of his presence, because Mother might be ill, but she wasn’t _stupid_ ; so, he moved. Within a few hours of arriving at his childhood home, he had asked Kreacher to take him to their summer home in Esher. Kreacher had taken him there, with the familiar crack of apparition, and promised to check on him from time to time.

That made sense, he supposed. Regardless, he couldn’t hide his disappointment well enough for Kreacher to not realize. Kreacher gave him a particular look, which he averted his eyes at.

He quickly decided that he hated the estate, with its sprawling space, but with no one to reside in it with him. He lazily questioned if he should just kill his mother already, with the traditional suicide–poison trick. But it was much too cliché, and besides, keeping a relative of his under controlled, examined conditions could be useful for him. Ultimately deciding against it, he serenely looked off into the distance.

Sometimes things got too colorful for him, making it necessary for him to just close his eyes and relax. Other times, he would forget he had a corporeal from and knock against the wall, unable to remember he can’t just float through objects. It was embarrassing, when Kreacher was there to witness it.

It was easier to remain outside, to remain grounded with the millions of things that happened all the time, rather than get lost in the grimly furnished manor.

“But Mum. . .”

Regulus was sitting on a bench, so groggily content, he almost missed the sight of a muggle family walking back from St George's Church. It was not a Sunday, so he assumed they had their own reasons for a whole family to be entering and exiting the building. While he did not know much about the difference of the wizarding and muggle churches, he assumed there was a great deal of variation. The muggle bible condemned magic. Obviously, the wizarding counterpart did not.

Would the muggles be scared of him if they knew what he really was, a wizard? Or would they just laugh, because it was too weird of a possibility for their simple–minded brains to handle? Or, what if, the least likely possibility of them all, the family were wizards, themselves?

He brushed off that ridiculous idea as soon as it came to mind. Wizards and witches, no matter how muggle–inclined they were, _always_ lived near other wizards and witches. It was like an unspoken rule. He might be an exception, but he was an exceptional case.

He glimpsed a baby being held by the oldest looking woman – ah, a baptization. Regulus pretended to look over the page of a newspaper and acted like he was not eavesdropping on the conversation.

He was already suspicious looking enough, with great scars he had to sew together as they refused to heal themselves, and the large overcoat to cover the mark. It was the middle of summer, so that attracted attention by itself. Nevertheless, he missed looking at people, in general. It was lonely for a lot of the time in the summer home, without Kreacher in it to accompany him.

“No, Richie,” the maternal woman had said, sternly. “Your father and I won’t pay for another one of your toys. Dear, you already have so many, do you really need another one?”

Richie stomped his foot. Clearly, he never had difficulty with getting what he wanted from his parents. Said parents looked exhausted, as if this was the most demanding task of the day for them, while also being something they were used to. Who knew how many outbursts the kid got into for subjects as petty as that? If Regulus had ever talked back to his father. . . well, he wouldn’t. That was the end of the story.

“Pleaseeeee, Mum! Dad! It’s the newest model, and everybody else at school already pre–ordered it. Brandon Smith already has it! And you _hate_ the Smiths!”

The mother shared a look with her husband, before gesturing to the baby in her arms. It was implicit that the father was supposed to take the reins of the situation for today.

“Richie,” the father sighed. “Didn’t we already buy you a gizmo a few weeks ago? A what’s it called, a handheld thingy, a–”

“It’s called Donkey Kong, dad! I told you so many times! Don’t you ever listen to me?”

The man nodded solemnly, “Yes, that Atari electronics thing. The name is _so_ hard to remember; foreign, isn’t it? But, why would you need another toy if we already bought something, not that long ago?”

“More is always better,” the boy scoffed. “You should know that, out of all people.”

Richie then glared at the baby that was cradled in his mother’s arms, and it is obvious what he was trying to insist. Regulus was amused by the whole situation, with how blatantly jealous the child was.

At first, he repeated the words in his head because they were funny, until it barely made any sense at all. He dropped the newspaper he was holding. The connection was made and could not be ignored. The Dark Lord could have made _more_ than one. More than one. More than one.

Regulus shot up and ran back to his place of residency. He did not notice the family staring at his back, in confusion.

“Mum! Mum! Do you remember ever seeing that man before?”

“No. . . I don’t.”

“Dad?”

“Maybe he’d moved in recently.”

Richie commented, “A tad strange, though.”

The rest of his family agreed. People did not regularly move into Esher, not without the rest of the neighborhood knowing about it. That man was Odd, the capital–o type of odd. He did not belong in their town, and while it may have seemed rude to have been thinking, it was undeniable. It was as if he did not belong in their world at all.

They all edged closer together, feeling goosebumps rise up their arms. Their argument was long forgotten, with _that_ type of disruption. Some things just weren’t right, and that man was one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments give me life!! and encourage me to write more :)
> 
> just as a warning, i will likely take longer with updates, as life is starting and becoming more normal again...this means that instead of 1 or 2 weeks in between updates, it can be 2 to 6 weeks for me to update. i hope yall stick w me. kinda funny to me how etta is literally _the_ it girl, and she's like hmm, these ppl r so nosy. i wonder why. it's not like i'm friendly, nice and am amazing at my job.
> 
> update(9/26): changed the order of some things, now this is a mostly reg pov chapter + some things havent been revealed yet


	5. To Harbor Immortality in Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maximus sighed and claimed, “That chair is reserved.”
> 
> “Really?” the voice said in amusement. “Funny how I don’t see a name on it.”
> 
> Damn it. All he wanted to wallow in peace, away from everybody else. He pulled out his wand from the waistband of his pants. Stumbling over the incantation, all the while, he uttered out a spell. Wonky, burnt letters were made on the rim of the stool.
> 
> “What about now? Do you still not see them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED ON 9/26/20: if yall have already been reading before i published chapter 7, then i'd only recommend only reading the 2nd scene in the chapter

_Arcturus ** ~~B.~~** C. Black_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

_Islington, London_

_August 10, 190 ** ~~79~~** 82_

_Judd’s Junk Shop_

_8 Malthouse Circle_

_Newham, London_

_Dear Mr. Judd,_

_Congratulations on maintaining such a prosperous business, especially when one is considering the location and the trying times. Recently, I have been looking through my documents, records and other such things, as many of my distant relatives have unfortunately been indisposed and are unable to do so themselves. I have found several that will concern you and your store._

_Remembering recent events, I have realized it is of utmost importance that a family keeps what is important to them close to their vest. As you might remember, my father had sent you several family heirlooms during a especially bad fit of desperation._

_Bless his heart; his death was very much unexpected, and it was quite a shock to have to transition into his position._

_Nevertheless, we can only aspire to move on from our own, personal tragedies, and become strong for those who have passed. As I wrote earlier, it has struck me how important it is to have control of one’s proper possessions. While my father has sold them to you, it is clear to me that the Black family should regain control of the items._

_If you still own the books_ A Study into the Metaphysical Effects of Reviving and Conjuring the Dead: Applications and a Discussion of Hypotheticals _by Tojola Mim;_ Transfiguration and the Dark Arts: What is the Connection Between the Two Seemingly Different Fields of Magic? _by Faust Zorander; and_ Theology, Souls, Life and Life After Death _by Evie Holroyd, it would be excellent if you could owl them to me._

_I am also in belief that a pair of dragon tear’s earrings, a thirteenth century goblin–wrought pair of golden cufflinks, and an enchanted silver dagger, said to have been made over three hundred and fifty years ago, are all in your possession, but were owned by the Black family, prior to that. I am sure they should still be in your storage., as family heirlooms tend to want to stay in the family; regardless of what my ancestors might have done._

_I ask you to send me all of the mentioned objects, and we can determine the prices later._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Arcturus ** ~~B.~~** C. Black_

Regulus read over the letter, looking for any blatant errors that could warn the owner that it was not in fact Arcturus Black who wrote it. He had poured over his grandfather’s own writing, attempting to mimic his script perfectly. He would like to say that it was actually perfect, but Regulus is not stupid. It wasn’t. He knew it was good enough to fool a stranger, and _just_ that.

He could see three, glaring blots of ink that ruin the letter’s appearance, mostly caused by his inability to adjust. He had always signed off with his signature R.A.B. and when he last wrote anything, it was 1979. Now, it was like a jump in time – or like New Year’s was just a few days ago – but he can pass it off as a fading memory. After all, he was supposed to be Arcturus C. Black, an aging, forceful sort of man, not Regulus.

He doesn’t even know _where_ his grandfather is. He was just sure that he wouldn’t come to Esher and find about Regulus’s miraculous revival. There might be few characteristics shared between his grandfather and his mother, but they both were incessantly questioning what seemed to be every aspect of his life.

And that was _before_ he died. And, of course, _before he came back to life_.

Oh well, he thought. There was no time to dawdle.

“Kreacher!” he called. With the soothing crack of apparition ebbing, Regulus smiled at the arrival of his friend.

“Yes, Master Regulus?

He cleared his throat and stated, “Now, Kreacher, listen to me very carefully.”

* * *

_The Green Dragon_

_Newham, Longon_

_November 23, 1981_

Maximus was lonely. That was the best adjective to describe his life, as of now.

He had moved to a different country, one that was across the _continent_. Of all the countries, he had moved to England. He fucking hated England, but that wasn’t a surprise. Everybody fucking hated England. Half the people there were complete and utter pricks and acted as if a slight accent meant he was less than nothing. Bloody imperialists. They could all gag on their badly made tea and crash their cars on their weirdly made roads.

Well, besides Freddy and Etta and the rest of their family, of course, but they were the only exception. They were always an exception. Freddy was the sole reason he had even immigrated here.

Sure, he didn’t move _just_ because of the other man, and there were multiple underlying factors, but still. He had accepted it so easily, mostly because it meant that he would get to spend more time with the adorable Fredrick Wilkerson; but it was also because he knew Freddy would do the same for him. The same Freddy he got to meet purely by chance, when the other man had gotten lost in Romania during a business trip.

That must have been what love is, he mused, as he sat in the middle of the dusty bar. He gently shook his glass. It was having somebody who would care for you, till the ends of the Earth. Good thing for them that the planet was a sphere. He could run in circles for Freddy, more than a million times, and he knew that Freddy would do the same for him, because that was what love was for them.

What he had failed to account for was the Dark Lord in England ( _who_ even had Dark Lords taking over their nation anymore? It was such a faux pas – if you do it, at least try for international domination). You–Know–Who, what all the citizens called the said Dark Lord, as his actual name was cursed. His henchmen, death eaters, he soon learnt, would kill you for it.

Why say a simple phrase, if it meant you and your entire family would be tortured to death because of it? The obvious answer was that you didn’t, so he had stopped, very quickly.

Another thing he had not managed to realize was that He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named, what he preferred to call the megalomaniac – because _no_ , it was not obvious who You–Know–Who was – had only been testing the waters when Maximus had first moved. And that itself had done so much damage.

Hundreds of families had been murdered. He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named had ramped the raids and violence, heightened so most muggleborn and half–blood and blood traitor families were too afraid to even go out and get food.

And Freddy had started to become an active participant in the war against He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named. Maximus really should have known better than to even think that his attempt to persuade him to not join would work.

Yeah, he should have known better.

Freddy was a muggleborn. It had only made sense that he couldn’t ignore what was going on around him, if it could so easily be his own family that would be going through what others did. Unfortunately, that had also meant that it became that much easier to be accepted to join the Order of the Phoenix, a vigilante group that comprised of _the_ Dumbledore and select wixen from Hogwarts. Freddy might have only had acted around the peripheries, but it also meant he had always been going to be a little more likely to have died from the other end of He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named.

Lovely, wonderful Freddy was dead because of a complete mad man, and it was only within the second year Maximus knew him. He had never cried harder than the day of Freddy’s funeral.

They weren’t even sure he was dead – they had never found a corpse, and maybe they were fortunate for that – it had been simply assumed. If that wasn’t fucked up, he didn’t know what was. Why was it so easy for people to simply disappear, only for them to show up, weeks after, with their body mutilated from an attack by the death eaters?

After the event, Maximus just couldn’t do nothing. How could he, when there were hundreds of other Freddys? People who had entire families and lovers and friends and lives, and they were murdered because of something as trivial as blood status. It was _so unfair, so terrible_ , it would be odd if he didn’t try to do something about it.

He had done the only thing he could think of and had howled at the old headmaster to let him join. Dumbledore had stood, motionless, as if it was something that happened to him all the time. He wasn’t taking him seriously, which wasn’t fair, so he had gone out and told him three quiet words, to show his true desperate reasoning for the cause.

Surprisingly, it had been those three words that managed to completely convince him.

Maximus had wondered about it. The sudden change of demeanor had been striking and had suggested Dumbledore had a personal connection to the topic. He did not remember Dumbledore ever saying that he had a wife, but he also didn’t have a husband. So, the only possibility was that it was an old flame.

It had to be enough years ago for the public to never memorize their name and face, like they did with Dumbledore’s, which implied it was when he had been a young man, himself. When he was not known for much, besides maybe being the headboy during his seventh year. The parallel must have been haunting, for his acceptance had been so straightforward.

Etta. . . she had been surprisingly comfortable with the development. As if she had not lost her own brother due to the struggle and could lose another friend to it.

He had not known what to make of it. Etta had not been fine. He knew she wasn’t, but she had denied any depression, any gloominess, any sadness about her brother’s death.

Instead, she had gotten herself deeply into runes, and seemed to be very passionate about the subject. That had practically convinced him that maybe he was actually imagining it. That Etta had always been fine, and that he had been projecting his ideas onto her. She had gotten an internship with Madame Renshaw, for Merlin’s sake. She had to be okay, right?

He had been completely wrong. One day, when Etta was missing from their weekly dinners, he had apparated to her apartment. Maximus had walked into her bedroom, thinking that she was there, and that was definitely not what that he had found out. He had fucking found plans of necromancy.

At first, he had not thought much of the messy notes that had been spread all over the room. That was, until he had seen the bloody Chinese rune for death. Now, Maximus was no whiz at runes or what their meanings were or even what they were used for, but he had known enough to tell that the plans were not any good.

Plans, he had only been able to assume, that were to resurrect Freddy.

How the fuck could he have had missed that?

He had run out of her bedroom, only to see Etta a few meters outside the door of her apartment, looking ready to apparate away. Maximus had been lucky enough to hitch a sidealong with Etta; he had been confident enough in her apparating skills, and that she wouldn’t splinch him, even with the sudden weight on her. Etta didn’t do the deed, just yet, and that was all that mattered. He had to prevent her from doing it.

Maximus had subsequently chastised her for her stupidity, because come on, it was stupid. Wixen should know better than mess with the dead. It was basically a core principle for all wixen, even the dark ones.

She had claimed she had been possessed, and he realized he _really_ should have figured that much out, earlier.

Etta’s eyes weren’t always pitch black, for Merlin’s sake! That certainly should have been a tip off. But, it did nothing to dwell on the past.

He should be celebrating – He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named was dead! – but he was just drinking his arse out with a bunch of drunkards. He didn’t know why everybody was so happy. All he could think about was Freddy, Freddy who had died before He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named was even defeated. It just. . . wasn’t fair.

Maximus didn’t have the energy to cry, though.

Freddy would have been so disappointed in him, if he was able to see Maximus now. He wasn’t even sure Freddy would have appreciated his part in the war, considering how desolate he was now. It had been 23 days since the war had technically ended, and he had spent all 23 of them alone, in a corner of a pub.

During most of the war, he had stayed in a small house close to the Wilkersons, setting up wards for Mrs. and Mr. Wilkerson, but it proved to be too much when _both_ Mr. Wilkerson and Freddy died within weeks of each other. Etta couldn’t even come back home because she could have run into a group of blood purists on her way there. There just weren’t enough aurors or members of the Order to protect students who wanted to visit and ensure the rest of their families were alright, resulting in a number of postponed or missed funerals.

He took another swig from his cup. The alcohol didn’t even burn his throat.

“Is that also on the tab?” the bartender asked him, unimpressed, and his eyebrows raised.

The question barely registered in his mind. “Sure,” he shrugged. Maximus was pretty sure that the bartender grumbled a complaint, but he did not bother to request him to repeat it. He did not come to the pub for a fight; if he did, he would have gone to the miserable English Ministry. They were astoundingly corrupt for what was supposed to be a government institution and kept on making the worst choices, more so than he thought were possible.

A person slipped into the stool next to his.

Maximus sighed and claimed, “That chair is reserved.”

“Really?” the voice said in amusement. “Funny how I don’t see a name on it.”

Damn it. All he wanted to wallow in peace, away from everybody else. He pulled out his wand from the waistband of his pants. Stumbling over the incantation, all the while, he uttered out a spell. Wonky, burnt letters were made on the rim of the stool.

“What about now? Do you still not see them?”

The person yelped, before laughing. “Feisty, aren’t you?”

“Merlin damn it,” the bartender frowned. “You gotta pay for that, Zamfir! And I don’t give a shit about your tab. Either pay up by the end of the week or I’m getting you blacklisted in all of the pubs in London! No, I’ll make it all of _England_ , even the muggle ones, if you don’t.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. Maximus was broke, unemployed and had none of the certifications any decent jobs would require. So, he was absolutely screwed. He made eye contact with the person next to him.

The wixen wasn’t exactly ugly, but their features would be more likely considered unconventionally attractive. Or unconventionally _un_ attractive. Take your pick.

They had a large, aquiline nose that was slightly crooked. In fact, all the parts of their face were a little off center, to one side or the other, making their face seem like unevenly made pottery, as if created by a novice. They smirked.

“My name’s Jeton.”

He tried to take another gulp of the drink, but there was no liquid left. “Hey! Can I–”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “Fine. Is it gonna be on your tab, again?”

“No,” the wixen spoke up. “I’m getting him a round.”

“What a surprise,” the bartender muttered.

“And yours?”

“My what?” Maximus echoed.

“Your name.”

“My mum always warned me to not give that type of information out to strangers.”

“I’m Jeton, not a stranger.”

“Same dif.”

“Well then, stranger. I have a job that you might be interested in.”

He peered at the wixen through the glass. He snorted, “‘m mot a rent boy.”

This time it was the wixen’s turn to roll their eyes. “Now, don’t get too cocky for me. I didn’t say that was what I wanted from you.”

Maximus scoffed with continued bravado, but a flush was visible on his cheeks.

“I have this family store – really trashy, by all accounts, but it’s still mine. Don’t want to work there, because it’s kinda shit, though I don’t want to sell it, ’cuz it’s still a part of my family’s history, y’know?”

He hummed, in understanding, aware of where the wixen was going with it.

“So, obviously I’m gonna need someone to take care of it. And there’s a ton of people on the dole, some of them who’d be willing to do it for a quick buck.”

“And you wanna ask me to do it, why?”

“’Cuz any bosses would want a fit employee.” Then, they laughed, “Just joking.”

“Gee, thanks _so_ much for the compliment,” he scowled.

“I mean I was just joking about that being the reason. I really decided to ask you ’cuz of something a fortune teller said; you being fit was just a bonus.”

Maximus genuinely laughed for the first time in two years. He mocked, “You believe in that bullshit? What did they say that you would meet someone in red trousers, and that they’d be the perfect person you could hire for your business?”

They huffed, “The prophet was the same woman who predicted my birth, and the date my mother would pass. I believe in her.”

“That’s self–fulfilling. Everybody knows prophecies are like that – the more you believe, the more likely it’s gonna happen.”

“I didn’t think this is an opportune time for a judgement of my personal beliefs, not when there’s no way you can afford purchasing a new stool for this pub, and that’s saying _something_. Are you gonna accept the offer or not?”

“I’m way too sober for this,” he admitted.

“I’ll buy another round if you say yes.”

Maximus shrugged before grinning, “Alright then, that sealed the deal for me. Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together, and Maximus had a sensation that he would soon regret the proposal. Whatever, he thought. More drinks for the present. He could deal with the consequences later.

* * *

_Black Family Summer House_

_Esher, Surrey_

_August 13, 1982_

He sat on one of the plush chairs situated in the warmest corner of the library. Regulus was _so_ tired, but he had a lot to catch up on.

The first thing he had asked Kreacher to do was to collect all major new articles on what had happened during his. . . state of in between. He still doesn’t know what to call it because it was such a strange experience – something he would rather forget, if he was honest – so sue him for struggling to think of a catchy nickname for it. He was right to ask for the newspapers, though. So much has happened. For one, the Dark Lord was “dead.” Regulus, of course, knew that wasn’t true, but it wasn’t like he could go around saying that.

He was supposed to be a dead death eater, one that had been dead for three years. If he spread “propaganda” about how the Dark Lord was still alive, he’d be treated more like a Bellatrix, rather than someone with honest intentions. And he did not want to end up like Bellatrix, rotting in Azkaban for the rest of her days.

No, he would rather lay low for now. He would have to find all the horcruxes; _then,_ find someone who can destroy them; and _then,_ possibly stop hiding. Yes, horcruxes, as in multiple of them, because the Dark Lord was a particular type of bastard. Meaning, he would go as far down that path to conquer death, itself.

Regulus personally thought it was stupid. Horcruxes fractured one’s soul, like if one chose to drink unicorn blood, they would be cursed to a half–life. They don’t even keep the user’s youth – he _saw_ how inhumane his old master had looked – so, technically the Dark Lord would have the pains of an ordinary one hundred something year old wizard, sans the ability to perish.

The Dark Lord would go to a special hell when he dies. Indeed, _when_ he dies, because Regulus had a chance to take him down, for real, and he was not going to be stupid enough to waste it. Kreacher and him, they would do it. He knew they could.

It was surprising how the most vital conjecture of their search came from a ten–year–old, _muggle_ child.

A whiny, obnoxious one at that. Nevertheless, someone who accidently caused Regulus to startle upon the most important aspect of their job. They would have to find _multiple_ horcruxes. He was foolish to think the Dark Lord would stop at one.

The only question, how many were there? Was he only depraved enough to split his soul into three pieces? Four? Five? How far would he be willing to go, if it meant his safeguards for immortality multiplied? Regulus had absolutely no fucking clue, and that was a problem.

There was an incredible amount of guesswork that was involved, as he knew next to nothing about the Dark Lord. He didn’t even know what the Dark Lord would even want to use, for another horcrux. The locket made enough sense, with it being that descended from Salazar Slytherin, himself. If anything, it would have been _surprising_ if the horcrux had nothing to do with Slytherin.

The Dark Lord loved to spend his time bragging, one of the many topics he covered included his ancestry from the Hogwarts founder and his inherited ability of parseltongue.

Regulus wished he had inherited an unusual magical ability from his parents. Instead, he got a crumbling fiefdom, ruined by Andromeda and Sirius and the disgrace of their unfortunate influence. He also was rich, which. . . he supposed was decent. But something he could still make for himself.

It had struck him, how he really knew nothing about the Dark Lord. Regulus didn’t even know his last name, nor his first. It wasn’t like Dark Lords were fully born from the womb as a Dark Lord. No, they had pasts, entire life stories before they were powerful enough to be called that name. So, who was he? To some point, he understood the reasoning behind the secrecy; a lack of knowledge was always scarier than having knowledge. Though, the Dark Lord shared nothing about his past, not even to his inner circle.

Regulus was somewhere in between all the commoners and the true inner circle, solely because of his family name; but for once, he did regret his status. He did not regret his defection when he had done practically nothing of importance for the Dark Lord, compared to Bella, anyways. He had nothing to really feel guilty over, besides his. . . initiation.

Regulus felt a headache coming in – it was from the stress starting to settle in, he knew – and groaned.

He was right about needing to do more research, he needed to make many more inquiries about birth records and the like. What surprised him the most was that there was no known pureblood family who claimed the Dark Lord as theirs. Was–

He banished the thought from his headspace immediately, there was _no_ way their leader could have been anything but a pureblood. Who would be ashamed of their family, so?

A voice whispered to him: Sirius did.

Regulus looked up, just to make sure there wasn’t a ghost inhabiting his home. It would be weird, with how Regulus used to be a ghost, but was actually a human, once again. Toeing the line of awkward, in all honesty. However, there was no ghost. It was just his conscious, which was both tiring, as well as embarrassing.

The energy to actually deal with emotions laid far beyond his capacity, right now. Nevertheless, his own emotions, during any time ever. He would rather– well, not die, but he would much rather talk to his mother, which he really just doesn’t want to do.

Besides, he was supposed to be waiting for his order to arrive. The package wouldn’t be sent directly to the summer home, obviously, and it would have to be intercepted by Kreacher in Grimmauld. Regulus had faith in the house elf’s abilities. Kreacher, himself? Not so much. Regardless, he assured his friend that mother wouldn’t think too much of it. She had never liked reading too much, anyways.

Regulus continued to skim the articles, only stopping on occasion to read a more interesting article in depth. Those were few, though, and for the majority of them, it only had contained fluff, ever since the war ended. Nothing really stood out to him, with a lot of the compositions focusing on who and how many people died.

In a paper published a week after his disappearance – his death, in actuality – Regulus passed by an obituary for himself. It was unsettling. The eulogy was short and brief, and he had noted how his grandfather had written it.

He guessed his namesake had felt a slight sense of entitlement to Regulus, at least, with how he passed away before his own mother. How morbid.

Outside the windows, the sky had turned a deep black, resembling an untouched pool of ink. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to see the stars. It was a past time that both he and Sirius had enjoyed doing together, until Sirius left and Regulus refused to talk to a blood traitor. Distinctly, Regulus was able to remember laying down on a woven blanket, in the very estate, and naming constellations. They were testing each other, to make sure they both got them right. That was long ago, though, that it was like he imagined it all up.

A pop echoed through the room, and Kreacher’s body appeared after the typical, nauseating twist of apparition.

“Kreacher is having the books, Master Regulus!”

Regulus nodded, “Thank you, Kreacher. If you could hand them to– yes, that would be good. Thank you, again. Since you’re here, I might as well ask you. How is Mother doing, anyways? Is she faring any better?”

“Oh, my poor Mistress is being terrible. Kreacher’s Mistress can hardly eat, or drink, or sleep. She is always being so drained of energy.” The house elf proceeded to talk about her state of health and how she was ailing. Regulus assumed it was a cheap ploy to make him come back. He had to concede, it almost worked. Kreacher was good at prodding his pressure points, the ones the elf knew would produce a sense of guilt.

Leafing through the pages, he hoped that he would find anything of interest in the book. It had originally belonged to the Black family, but it was pawned, of _all_ things, to a junk shop in a small wizarding community in Newham, of _all_ places. It was little better than stumbling out of a pub in Hackney like a drunkard, like the stranger he met a week ago had accused him of.

Regulus had to track it down from a catalogue of purchases and sales, back when Sirius II was still the head of the family.

His great grandfather was a vicious alcoholic, according to his father, and had almost led their house to poverty. It was a small mercy that he died young. Whether it was from natural causes or not, was still a question, but one that didn’t matter. Murders in the wizarding world were as common as owning an owl. He was sure that had to do with how marriages were done in the wizarding church; once you got married, it was truly death till you part. Divorces and annulments didn’t exist. He wondered if it was Arcturus or Hemper who had killed him. Maybe it was a joint effort.

He skipped to chapter two in the book written by Mim. Regulus vaguely heard what Kreacher was lecturing him about.

“Master Regulus is needing to eat food!”

“Hmm.”

“Kreacher is not joking! Master has not eaten any of the dishes Kreacher is making! Kreacher had not seen Master drink a cup of water, either.”

That was true, he realized. Still, he did not put too much effort in replying, instead focusing on the content of the volume. “Hmm.”

His friend wailed, “It is being four days since Master has eaten. Master _must_ eat! He mustn’t die, again! Is Master wanting Kreacher to make a cup of tea?”

Chapter two had nothing relevant to his investigation. He frowned and went back to the table of contents and scanned the table until he saw another chapter of interest: chapter four, _Past Studies and what They Imply_.

Regulus choked out, weakly, “Yes, that would be nice.”

“Kreacher lives to serve!”

The house elf hopped off the chair he was sitting on and made to the kitchens.

He read through the first sentence of each paragraph, yet to find what he was looking for. Then, he saw it; his blunt satisfaction quickly turning into blatant horror. Regulus had affirmed that he wanted the drink, but he wouldn’t drink it. He _couldn’t_.

The passage read: _In the hypothetical – extreme edges of possibility, of course – situation that a plant dies, can we bring it back? The answer would be yes. A wizard of witch may simply flick their wand and it is possible to do so. However, what do we do in that easy movement? _

_We do not necessarily bring it back to life; no, we do not practice the most liquidated ideas of necromancy. What we do is something more intricate and purer. We rejuvenate it, technically conjuring vitamins and the sort (the muggle sciences are not adequately researched in conjunction with wizarding magic; turn to page 764 for more detail about this pressing dilemma). But, even in this scenario, the plant is not dead in the truest sense. It is more in the manner that a plant is almost dead, teetering on the edge of existence, but not fully crossing that line. It looks dead but is not._

_Take it one step farther; what will happen with animals? Creatures? Humans? Will we be able to, essentially, rejuvenate these living beings? Beings that we know have souls? What if we tried to do that with beings that are fully, in the sense of the word, dead?_

_In that case, the answer does lay with necromancy. Nevertheless, even without experimentation, we can still produce conjectures on what will happen, with beings that have not fully passed on to the beyond. In theory, these beings – ones that have not crossed the veil but have still “died” – will be able to work the same way a plant has. Muggles do something of a similar nature when muggle hospital patients are in a catatonic state, using a feeding tube to supply said patient with the proper vitamins and food, so they are still, in all cases, healthy._

_There is still the question on the classification of both this rejuvenated plant and the not–completely–dead being. Are they considered the undead, or are they alive?_

_Clearly, the rejuvenated plant is alive. It has never died in the first place! However, it only remains that way for as long as a wizard or witch gives the plant a satisfactory and necessary amount of vitamins and minerals. However, when we look at necromancy and when something is revived from the dead – meaning that it was dead before the ritual – the revived plant is dead. _

_Nobody can bring living things back to life, according to Mendoza’s lesser known third principle of Necromancy. There are yet to be any verified exceptions to the rule and it's doubtful that there will ever be any. However, magic is much too fluid of a medium to ever be sure of such things. We can only assume and guess and hopefully, they will be correct. For your sake and mine, let us hope that this is an instance where our hypothesis is true to reality; an attachment to the dead has never, and will never benefit anyone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some offtopic things that i'd like to mention:  
> -reg is technically less than TEN miles away from harry...like they're so close to each other and neither of them r even aware of it, yet. it would be SO easy for them to accidently meet...hmm choices, choices  
> -reg is still unaware that his brother is in azkaban, this is cuz the black family is only subscribed to the prophet, and farzaneh wrote the specific article in WWN. he's only read the general article on how voldy is "dead"
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are appreciated ;]


	6. An Unreasonable Series of Coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman raised an eyebrow at his loud, unexpected outburst. “Was there something wrong with what I asked? I thought it was simple enough. Something I would be willing to do for you, if you ever asked. You probably wouldn’t, but I would still be willing.”
> 
> “It’s just-”
> 
> “Are you saying you can’t do it? It’s just one, tiny,” she paused, searching for a word that would not make her seem horrible. Farzaneh finished, “distraction.”

_Parking Lot_

_Central Office for WWN_

_Highbury, Islington_

_August 7, 1982_

Of all the ridiculous problems Farzaneh had gotten into, she did not know what to make of the one she was in right now.

The woman had a fair share of magical incidents, hijinks and problems over the years, because she was supposed to be a _half–blood_ in Slytherin, for God’s sake. Following her school years, working for WWN had also produced a number of _almost_ hospitalizations and injuries; mostly because she had always chosen the riskier topics to write a story on as they tend to garner the most interest, as well.

But this, _this_.

She wanted to whack her head against a pole, having a proper conclusion on whether she was just imagining the whole situation, or not. But in the off chance she _wasn’t_ daydreaming, she’d rather not have a red bump in the middle of her forehead, not when she was already running late.

It had started out as a regular day. She woke up. She ate a blueberry muffin and drank some tea, prepared the prior night. She greeted her muggle neighbors, because it was the polite thing to do and she couldn’t just avoid everybody who lived near her; she refused to be thought of as a recluse, not when she already received a great deal of suspicious stares. Then, she started thinking about the case Wilkerson had given her.

Describing it as troubling was an understatement. Farzaneh was perturbed by it.

There were no living, known Blacks who fitted Wilkerson’s description of the person she was looking for – and it _had_ to be a Black. The family had distinct features that stayed in the family, a result from consistent inbreeding. She considered them very lucky to not have some serious, visible disfigurement. They probably had webbed toes, or something of that sort, something an outsider like her wouldn’t be aware of.

That meant that it had to be a child they never told the public they had, meaning it had to be a squib. But that couldn’t be the situation, as Wilkerson particularly described them as a wizard or witch. Besides, everybody knew the Black family has never formally had a squib child in centuries. They were all disowned or killed as an infant.

(Farzaneh then understood why Maman was considered _lucky_ to not be murdered as a ten–year–old. The community was _crazy_. The Blacks were _crazy_.)

That realization led her to a goose chase around the Black family tree. She looked as far as their very, very distant relations in America, but that had turned out to be a bust, when none of the members of that branch looked like those in England. Unlike their far–away relations in Europe, they had not chosen to keep it within the pureblood elite, and freely married muggleborns. Muggles, or how they would call them, no–majs, were a different story, but that had to do with American history, rather than any poorly rationalized prejudice.

Finally, she had to admit that the Black Wilkerson saw was _not_ from over the pond. They had to be British. And. . . that made no sense. She had examined their family tree _so_ many times, and with every search, she had found nothing more. There was nothing left for her to check.

That other, important, but annoying realization brought her back to London. From what she was able to discern from a wizard – one who owed her a favor from a prior job – the Blacks lived somewhere in the city. Where, he could not say, but it was claimed that the house was under the fidelius. She doubted if that was actually true, as there was no way they would trust an outsider from the family to be a secret keeper. Nevertheless, it was the only lead she had.

So, the only possible choice to find the wandering Black was to move to London or spend a lot of time in London. The latter was impossible to do with her finances, so obviously, she had to do the former option. Which. . . was what she did.

It took a massive portion of her savings, but she supposed it was worth it in the end. She had even been given a discount, surprisingly enough.

The townhouse was much closer to the headquarters of WWN, and it was much closer to her parent’s new home, as well. What really convinced her was that it was a mere mile walk to her office, for her freelance work too.

Normally, distance wouldn’t be much of a problem for wizards or witches, but she never truly got the hang of apparating, resulting in a decent amount of accidents. All of which ended with her vomiting, or splinching her fingernails, or losing an eyebrow, or. . . other things that she would rather not repeat. The list went on and on, embarrassingly. It felt like she could never leave her origins, in the end.

Her tea had gotten lukewarm, after she had gotten lost in her ponderings. Whatever, she dismissed. Tea was tea, hot or cold.

Saturday’s were for relaxation; that is, if she was more financially stable. Alas, she had to go to work for six days of the week, leaving only a margin of time for herself. She carried her tools, ready to drive to her office, the one for her official job at WWN. Farzaneh had a new article in the works, already, on a coven of vampires that had been reportedly residing in Scotland. She hoped that nasty hag, Rita Skeeter, hadn’t already started writing on – or what she had heard frequently happened, stolen – the topic. How people continued to believe in the Prophet was beyond her, but then again, wizards and witches had such _little_ sense.

How could they if they continued to use quills, of all things, to write? Or robes as their primary fashion? Farzaneh understood the importance of an aesthetic – hell, she had even transformed her wardrobe to Slytherin colors – but the wizarding community was taking it too far.

Then, she had stopped on her way to her car when she saw a black mass of limbs in her neighbor’s lawn. Before approaching the person, she couldn’t help but notice how the grass looked half–dead, especially compared to her own. If that was because of an enchantment she secretly casted when it was the middle of the night. . . well, nobody had to know about that. She most certainly wasn’t going to reveal that during the monthly HOA meetings.

What she really did not expect was the person’s _uncanny_ resemblance to a dead Black. A Black she remembered seeing in her common room, surrounded by other purebloods, playing their version of court. A Black who was at the top of the Slytherin hierarchy; never uttering a word yet ruling with his family name alone.

Notably, the person wore faded, dark robes; a piece of clothing she could clearly remember was in fashion for many purebloods, a few years ago. His features were aristocratic enough for him to be an _actual_ Black, nevertheless the one Wilkerson wanted to find. Somehow her unreasonable expensive home had resulted in her discovering the missing person. Thank God for small mercies, because of course the Blacks would live in an unreasonably expensive neighborhood. The odd compulsion she had to buy the townhouse, one she could not explain, had actually benefited her, for once. Strangely, it was her tendency to desire the high life had actually led her to him, even though it was regularly her weakness.

Sure, there were several key differences between him and the person she was thinking of, such as the silver scratches all over his face, as if he got into a fight with a broken glass bottle and lost, and the long, scraggly hair falling over his shoulders. But ignoring those details, he looked identical to _Regulus Black_. His voice was strange – low and growling, even when he wasn’t trying to argue – but still, similar to Regulus’s.

They had a stilted conversation, one long enough for her to hide a camera inside of her car, make it face the man, take a picture, and leave without resulting in any suspicion directed at her.

Then, she had driven to the parking lots near her office and proceeded to have a breakdown.

The man did not just bear a casual resemblance to Regulus Black – he _was_ Regulus Black. An eighteen–year–old looking Regulus Black, at that.

Eighteen was when the boy? teenager? adult? had died. It was a mere three years since his supposed death, so she couldn't chalk up the weird similarity to a father–son relationship. Even if Regulus fathered a son before he passed away, the hypothetical child would be two or three, not a young adult. Certainly not one who looked _exactly_ like him.

The more pressing problem was that she had already researched Regulus Black, and she found no leads about him being still alive. He was truly dead to the rest of the world. Farzaneh had given up that root of guesswork rather quickly. After all, even so–called impenetrable wards had their faults, and Regulus Black was not hiding in a safehouse.

It begged the question: was he actually alive for all those years?

If he was – if she somehow missed a connection, which she definitely did _not_ do, she knew how to investigate; it was one of her jobs, God damn it – how the hell did he not age, at all? There were no wrinkles, or laugh lines, or even creases to begin to hint he was about a twenty–one–year–old. Like he didn't age at all. It was curious.

There were only three possibilities, she assessed.

The first involved time magic, a topic she never recalled him studying. Of course, it could have been something he gained an interest in his later years, but she rather doubted that. People didn’t casually go into it.

Even time turners, the only object she had ever heard related to the subject, were highly regulated. Barely anyone had access to one; regardless, one that could work to that extent.

Time magic was practically unheard of, including in places like the Department of Mysteries. That sector of the government was known for their work with the unknown, but there were a few things that even they did not want to mess with. One of those things was time. After all, who could forget Eloise Mintumble? It had occurred almost 100 years ago, but it was hard to treat the effects of her time jump as anything ordinary.

The following Tuesday, after the retrieval of her body, had lasted two and a half days, and the following Thursday only a few hours.

Considering that, she felt it unlikely to be a jump back in time, as he would have appeared older than the last time she had seen him. As for a jump _forward_ in time. . . that would be theoretically impossible. No, not theoretically, it _was_ impossible.

Farzaneh knew what the Black was capable of. While intelligent, she doubted he would be able to break a known and tested pillar of magical theory. She was uncertain if he could break magic, to that scope.

Polyjuice was also an option, she supposed. But the young adult’s body had _never_ been found, and in the chance that it was, by the person who killed them, Regulus’s body would have long been a corpse. That made any potential uses or ideas of polyjuice null and void. Even if she assumed that the corpse was preserved, there were very few wizards or witches who had the capability of doing that, most of them dead or in Azkaban; a margin of the others would have no reason to do so.

There was one last possibility, one that her employer, Wilkerson, played a crucial role in. One that would explain the other woman's almost fanatical desire to find Regulus. It was not something that she wanted to consider, nor something she wanted to prove true. . . but, there were no other options, nothing to fall to.

She remembered, vividly, how Ged Edgecombe had warned her against accepting Wilkerson’s offer of work.

And she had gladly considered his advice, at least for a while. But three days after their conversation, her Baba had slipped on a stool, during his night shift at his job. He had to be hospitalized. The reasons were odd; however, she didn’t want to wonder about the topic more in depth than she had to.

All she could think about was that Baba was in the hospital.

The same person who helped her learn how to ride a bike or made sheer khurma on Eid. He was the one who was always excited to hear her talk about Hogwarts or Slytherin or her abysmal grades or anything else to do with the wizarding world. He was the one who carefully set up her own Gringotts account, so she would really be a witch in the eyes of the community.

They did not have sufficient money to pay for the fees, even if they used all of Farzaneh’s royalties from the stupid article, the one she wrote on Harry Potter.

She had calculated it, double checked with the goblins, even. The goblins would never lie when it came to monetary matters and had no reason to swindle her. She was a muggleborn with no history in Gringotts; it just wasn’t logical.

She was not going to lie. She had greatly suspected Wilkerson of foul play, that she had managed to find out about the worst parts – most vulnerable, weak – of her heritage, and forced Farzaneh to her hand. After all, gossip spread easy, and who would want to talk to a dark witch, blood status be damned?

The war was supposed to be over, but for her, it had only hit a plateau. Once there wasn’t overt prejudice, everybody would be going their own, merry way. How damn convenient for them. Of course, they would never admit to it, but how many of them were genuine in their beliefs, and how many did it because it was _supposed_ to be the morally right thing to do?

Some days, Farzaneh wondered if she would have so fluidly migrated to the magical world if she knew all that would change was a substitution of the _logic_ of the prejudice.

The client might be a muggleborn, as well. But that mattered little, when other people from the same birth used hatred as a weapon, almost like second nature. The single reason that she _did_ allow herself to accept the request was how her Maman had insisted magic was not the cause of the injury. Maman refused to meet her eyes but had asked her if she trusted her or not. And, well. . . it wasn’t like she could continue pestering after that.

God damn it, though. She should have never agreed to doing the job. She should have left Wilkerson fester in the hell hole she clearly came from.

She wanted to set her house on fire. Be sent to Azkaban. Anything but what she had to do now. Because, she might have a debatable sense of morals, but there were lines that she refused to cross, and this was one of them.

Wilkerson had to be treated in an intensive care unit because she was _poisoned_ from a ritual gone wrong.

Arthitmancy and Ancient Runes had eventually become a useless field of study for her, as she had become someone who was something in between a self–declared detective and reporter. But, if it taught her anything, it was that the only things that could _physically_ harm a wizard or witch, it was with screwed up contracts.

Contracts that offered the wizard’s or witch’s body as some sort of container, a treaty of agreement.

Possessions, unbreakable vows, blood seals. . .

Her trail of thought shifted to darker and darker magic, the acts necessary to fulfill its requirements getting more and more nauseating. It would even make people like the Rosiers and Yaxleys second guess a wizard's sanity. Yet, none of them seemed to explain a dead wizard's reappearance. There was only one known ritual that Wilkerson could have done – something she did not even want to utter.

It sickened her. She was glad she only had one muffin for breakfast, that day. Though she knew that she couldn’t afford anything more than that.

Bringing back the dead was not only one of the creepiest uses of magic, but also unnatural. Most Death Eaters wouldn’t even think of trying it. Goodness knows how uppity the upper class were with nature and tradition. Fanatical, really. But the magic never worked properly. When people died, their souls left, of course. So how did Regulus Black move with such elegant free will? Wilkerson didn’t even _know_ where Black was, and if she was the one to have resurrected him, then the ritual must have gone more wrong than she thought. Necromancers were supposed to have full control over their inferni; something her client strangely lacked.

There were still so many unanswered questions that it gave her a headache. Wilkerson didn't know _who_ Black was, but was adamant to start a whole investigation, which was entirely funded and supported by her. A whole 1200 galleons worth. Of course, it could be a ruse. Delicately created so Farzaneh would be thrown off the trail. It made her feel oddly guilty for being unable to think that was the case.

However, Wilkerson was a healer, not a manipulator. She was a Hufflepuff, for crying out loud; Hufflepuffs usually were harmless, sans that one fanatical Death Eater.

She clutched onto the steering wheel even tighter. This was too much information to process before she had even started work, oh God – she _still_ had an eight–hour shift to do. This was practically unfair.

Farzaneh exhaled. What even was her life anymore?

She weighed her options. She could either go to work and pretend she hadn’t seen anything, but holy shit. Her client was a necromancer, she couldn’t just ignore that!

The other option, equally stupid, was to wait until Wilkerson had free time and confront her about it. Farzaneh was good and bluffing, good enough she could put pressure on the other woman until she caved. But. . . she seriously could not afford _not_ getting a salary from both of her jobs.

Her day was just terrible. Furious, she smacked her head against the steering wheel, causing a honk to be heard synchronously with every successive thump. After three times it had occurred, a pedestrian yelled at her.

“Sorry!” Her voice trailed off, but the other person only gave her a glare.

She couldn’t just sit in her car all day. Grumbling, she picked up her bags and trudged to the office.

Her face must have been noticeably grumpy, as Edgecombe immediately asked her, with the sight of her, “Rough day?” He had a terrible smirk on his face, but that just masked an expression of genuine concern.

Farzaneh was almost touched. That was as close to sincerity she was going to receive on a regular day, when she was not being coerced by a crazy, dark–magic–practicing witch to accept a, most likely, illegal and dangerous job.

“You could say.”

“Want to rant about it?”

“No, not particularly.” She admitted but hesitated before continuing. “Though, I do have a request for you, Edgecombe. I’ll need to clock out at noon, could you make up something about where I am?”

“You’re asking me to lie to my superiors?”

She nodded.

“ _Again?_ ”

She nodded, once more.

“You– you have got to be joking!”

The woman raised an eyebrow at his loud, unexpected outburst. “Was there something wrong with what I asked? I thought it was simple enough. Something I would be willing to do for you, if you ever asked. You probably wouldn’t, but I would still be willing to do it, all the same.”

“It’s just–”

“Are you saying you can’t do it? It’s just one, tiny,” she paused, searching for a word that would not make her seem horrible. Farzaneh finished, “distraction.”

He backtracked, “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say! I’m capable of covering for you, it’s just that you keep on skipping work.”

“Then,” she questioned, “what’s so difficult about carrying it out?”

“I know you have that other agency thing, the one you started, but Turtledove is going to be suspicious if you’re always in the bathroom or picking up a coffee from the cafeteria. She might not remember about your other job, though. She might actually think you just don’t want to do work and just decide to fire you. And this is like the third time in the past two weeks, alone, that you’ve implored me to do this.”

Farzaneh had the audacity to seem surprised. “Out of all the things you could say, _that_ was your best excuse?”

“Hey, it _is_ a good excuse. Nobody’s going to bother looking for you if you’re supposed to be in the bathroom. That would be creepy. Regardless, that’s not what I’m trying to point out, though.” Edgecombe looked unnerved, his eyes looking at everything but her. “You can’t just ask me to do something, without telling me why. That’s just not fair to me.”

The woman scowled, “You know that’s just not fair, to me, either. A lot of my clients require privacy. It’s part of the details we sign on–”

“If you have a boyfriend, or girlfriend, or partner, or whatever, and _that’s_ the reason you keep on leaving, you should at least tell me – even though I doubt you do – or you could tell the higher ups. They wouldn’t fault you for making time for a special someone, as the lot of them are married, themselves. Maybe you could shift to working at home, but there’s just a limit to the extent of what I can do to help, you know.”

She snorted, “What do you mean you doubt it? But. . . you’re not wrong. I certainly have not been dating somebody. Do you see a ring on this finger? I’m only meeting someone, they’re a. . . friend.”

“It's not like you’re unattractive or anything, but,” Edgecombe stopped his train of thought, his cheeks flushing a slight red. “Well, you paused for quite a while. Are you sure you aren’t courting somebody on the down low? I won’t tell anybody, promise.”

“No, I’m quite sure that I’m not.”

The man’s face brightened, like a just fully charged, megawatt light bulb. Farzaneh took the opportunity to reiterate her demand. “So, you can do it? That’s absolutely fantastic, Edgecombe.”

“What– That’s not what I meant,” he sputtered out. He put his head in his hands, “Sometimes I forget that you were a Slytherin, and then I get an abrupt reminder of it. Fine, I _can_ do it. but don’t be mistaken, I’m not going to try too hard. Remember that. It’s not my fault if you find yourself fired by the end of the day.”

As if Edgecombe was being literal about his emotions. She laughed, “Well, I suppose you’d rather want to explain why you let me leave during the middle of work, then? You were always a strange cookie, Edgecombe.”

“A what? But, oh Merlin, I told you to call me Ged so many times. You can stop calling me Edgecombe, by now, at the very least. We knew each other for practically years, even without counting our Hogwarts days.”

Farzaneh chuckled at the casual ignorance of the wizard. It was almost endearing how little he knew about muggle idioms or popular culture, the main reason she refused to use his given name. She wondered if his mother had ever read muggle literature, and that was where the name came from. But no, that made no sense; the book had been released after Edgecombe’s birth. Maybe Le Guin was the one who named her character after him.

Her gaze moved back to the empty parchment, void of any ideas or writing. She inwardly groaned, a little. If she didn’t have anything done by the time she had to leave, Turtledove would nag her until she did, and it was not worth the torment.

She lazily flicked the quill, mindlessly spelling out words and phrases. They were mostly half–strung thoughts, almost prompts for multiple, different articles, but not something that would be able to coexist together. However, even with this activity taking up her time, her mind had remained at the mystery of Regulus Black. Slowly, she was able to come up with a stream of theories, creating an outline of a plan on how to confront Wilkerson. She hoped it would be enough to get the truth of the situation.

The clock struck twelve, and she snapped her wand to retrieve her belongings. Hopefully, if all went well, she would have her answers, as well as time to finish penning a story.

Edgecombe nodded at her, as if verifying her departure. It wasn’t necessary, but it was welcome, all the same.

When she had finally arrived at the hospital, she realized how ridiculous her situation was. She should be reporting Wilkerson to the Ministry – regardless of how incompetent they were, at least they were efficient with their terrible practices – not wheedling an explanation out of her! Nevertheless, people having the ability to fully, to give them, no, bless them the gift of consciousness, raise the dead was ridiculous on its own, too. So, she supposed, insane situations needed even more insane responses.

In the wizarding world, that was. Everybody in the community was insane, and dreadfully stupid. They actually believed a one year old, an infant, could defeat You–Know–Who. She knew it was for the better, but the remarkable lack of critical thinking was more disappointing rather than relieving.

As soon as she stepped into the building, the receptionist had cried out, “Oh! Ms. Aziz, here to see a lady friend, are you?”

To be honest, Farzaneh had no idea what to say to that, nor to the implication that something beyond acquaintanceship was between her and Wilkerson. It was flattering, in a way, as Wilkerson was quite pretty by conventional standards, but she also despised the woman; so, that was something indeed.

“Yes, I’m waiting for someone. It’s Mediwitch Wilkerson.”

“Will you want me to call for her?”

“No! I don’t need you to do that! I’ll stay here until she has her break. Thank you for asking, though. It was nice of you.”

The receptionist gave her a sly, little smile. It screamed: you really adore that witch, don’t you? It was almost comedic, with how ironic it was. In reality, Farzaneh would be more than willing to punch Wilkerson, if it wasn’t considered so uncouth to do so in public or her technical inclination to non–violence. Nonetheless, there could always be exceptions to the rules. Especially when the exceptions were dangerous, foolish witches.

She sat in the lobby, for a measly ten minutes. It was lucky that she did not have to wait long, maybe. Maybe not.

Farzaneh remembered where the breakroom of the employees was, almost like there was a map traced onto the back of her hand. She had visited Wilkerson many times, needing to clarify and give weekly reports on how her investigation was going. Neither of them had the free time to visit a trendy cafe or library for their little meetings. Consequently, the rest of Wilkerson’s coworkers thought that she and Farzaneh were shagging. . . which was weird, to say the least. It was _Wilkerson_ , after all.

They had also begun to trust Wilkerson, which Farzaneh could admit was clever, because a lesbian witch seemed much less likely to turn on them and transfigure them to farm animals if they made her mad. Though, that wasn’t to say her client was comfortable with the rumors. The other woman had rather ignored the issue at hand than be focused on it.

Then, she paced to the room and accosted Wilkerson, dragging her to a storage area of some sort. She did not bother with the details, as she was far too distracted with what she was going to do next. She was actually going to confront a powerful witch. She ran through the strategy, once more.

After gaining control of what was going on, she took in a deep breath, and she pretended she knew everything about what was going on. She started talking. Wilkerson’s eyes seemed to widen with every accusation, but she also didn’t try to deny any of it. It wasn’t like Farzaneh had given her any room to talk, but there was no hint of laughter or confusion with what Farzaneh had accused her of; instead, she looked scared.

Wow, she thought. This was going remarkably well. And everything was going fine, until it wasn’t. Wilkerson had fucking set the photo on fire.

The action had practically confirmed her thoughts – the other woman was a danger to be around. God, she essentially admitted that she successfully committed necromancy, and while that was a tiny bit impressive, she was also more than willing to do anything necessary in order to keep that a secret. Farzaneh could use that, though.

Imagining she had the foresight to go to a copier machine, in a muggle library or something of the sort, Farzaneh lied and claimed she used the gemino charm. Her fingers were crossed: she hoped Wilkerson didn’t know too much about it, like how its copies were corrupted and would disappear over time, usually a twenty–four–hour period.

Wilkerson. . . took the bait. She actually believed her terrible bluff.

Slowly, Farzaneh listened to Wilkerson’s meandering explanation, of all the terrible, almost unbelievable events that happened to her for the last three years. She had half a mind to not interject with a ‘ _That’s not possible!_ ’ every five seconds.

“I see,” she chose to tersely reply. It was either an elaborate scheme to mess with her mind. . . or it was the truth. She did not know which one would be better to be the reality.

The other woman had a frantic, desperate look on her face, something that made her look harrowingly genuine. As if she was making sure that Farzaneh believed in her.

“Is there anybody you think should know about this?”

Wilkerson steadied, her restless energy slowly dissipating. “Yes,” she blinked. “Just one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> farzaneh, nodding her head, carrying a pitchfork: f capitalism, all my homies hate capitalism
> 
> crossed 20k w this chapter!! woohoo! and remember, kudos and comments give me brain fuel :]


	7. An Everlasting Contract of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziz glanced at her before opening her satchel. She cooed, “Wouldn’t expect anything less from a dirty necromancer. But, sure. I even have a blood quill and parchment, here, with me.”
> 
> He grimaced, “Woah, woah, woah. You could dislike Etta, but we don’t have to start throwing around unreasonable insults. Right, Etta? I mean she might have done necromancy before, but she was possessed, and it obviously didn’t work, so–”
> 
> Once again, the said woman refused to look at him.
> 
> Groaning, he said, “So, this was what was so illegal. You can’t just leave out those types of details!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i went overboard an wrote 7k+ words for this 😳😳 anyways i'd like to mention if you've started reading before i published this chapter(AKA 9/26) then i'd recommend to reread it starting from chapter 3(i've inserted a chapter there, so it's relatively new info)

_Judd’s Junk Shop_

_Newham, London_

_August 7, 1982_

He heard a pop of apparition in the store, which was odd. Most people didn’t apparate to a junk shop, especially not one in Newham. They would walk there, like ordinary muggles. After all, why waste your energy for a store in one of the shadier parts of London, the parts your mum tells you to avoid being at when it’s past midnight?

Maximus looked up from behind the register. He was working at Judd’s, because it was a place that had very few customers and he preferred things that way. He was currently working on the checkbook, as his boss deemed it unnecessary to have multiple workers, when one could do the job satisfactorily.

It was just Etta, someone who was practically his sister, and a Muslim woman he had never seen before in his entire life. This was unusual, but he wasn’t sure how to react to it, just not yet.

“This is it? Is this where they work?” The Muslim woman scrunched her eyebrows, and he could only guess what she was thinking. She was likely judging the shabbiness on the inside. He could admit that it looked as if it wasn’t taken care of for years, but there wasn’t much he could do, when he was the only worker there, and he kind of didn’t give a shit about it. Jeton wasn’t lying when he said the store was slummy.

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he was having fun working there, but it wasn’t as if other markets would choose to hire him. He couldn’t go to a muggle shop, as he didn’t have any paperwork that confirmed he was an actual citizen; he couldn’t go to most other wizarding stores because he was a foreigner, and British people did not tend to be the kindest to immigrants. They wouldn’t hire someone without any N.E.W.T.S or O.W.L.S. anyways. Right now, he didn’t have the proper connections to falsify them either, so that option was ruled out rather quickly.

“Hey Maxxy, Mum said hello. She wants you to come to dinner, Saturday. Ladywalk acorn broth.”

Etta never called him Maxxy or her mum that, ever. Maximus had never heard Etta call her mum anything else besides Ma. And the invitation to dinner on Saturday night part. . . something was clearly afoot, something that Etta couldn’t mention in front of the woman. They always ate together on Thursdays. Ever since the war had interfered with their schedule. He thought about the last sentence. The final three words might have been understood by an onlooker as complete gibberish – because it _was_ complete gibberish – but he quickly realized he would have to stun the other witch.

They had set up a system of code words and signals, back when the war had attacked all aspects of their world, when wixen were being imperiused left and right. They couldn’t be too careful about security. Not when Etta’s family were all muggles and practically defenseless against the Death Eaters. Not when Etta was a muggleborn. Not when Maximus was an active participant against He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named.

It had been a long time since either of them thought it was necessary to use it, but either way, he didn’t just forget about it.

The other woman snapped her neck back to Etta so fast, he worried she sprained a muscle. “What are you–”

He carefully picked up his wand from where it lay on the counter and muttered _stupefy_. It was too quiet for her to overhear, and the spell landed on her. She had almost fallen down onto the tiled ground, like a sack of potatoes, if it wasn’t for Etta standing close by and managing to catch her.

“There should be a damn good explanation for why I’ll have to take an unconscious witch to the back room. My employer might be something of a criminal himself, but I doubt that he would be happy if he saw this.” he said dryly.

Sighing, she spoke, “I don’t, obviously. I just happen to occasionally have a sudden urge to stun random, defenseless women. It’s a strange disease, but don’t worry. The doctor said it’s not contagious. Hopefully, anyways.”

“Oh, shut up Etta.” He rolled his eyes again. “Don’t be a smartarse when I probably did something illegal for you; yet, again. Just use a featherweight charm and bring her to the back. You’ll see the door to the room, it’s grey. Just place her in there.”

Etta grumbled, but relented.

Maximus went to the entrance of the store and flicked his wand. The sign was now presented to the ‘closed’ side. He hoped any potential customers would take the sign literally, and not try to come in. However, he had very little faith in the people who regularly shopped here. They were the type to look for dark objects that were hidden as normal books or toys, and would rather steal it, than leave any written records on the purchase. It really wouldn’t be the biggest problem, but it was annoying when there were discrepancies in the store’s log.

He wasn’t going to be one to judge them for what they did, though, not with his family being the way it was. He used the locking charm, just as a fallback. Then, he walked back to where Etta was standing. She stood, staring off into the distance and looking out of it.

“So?”

She lulled back into reality and repeated, “So?”

“ _So_ ,” he raised his eyebrows. “Who is this?”

Etta shifted from foot to foot. “Do you remember the Incident?”

That. . . was not what he was expecting.

“Yes,” he said slowly, trying to make the connection between this and that. As far as he could see, there was none. This woman was not there when Etta got possessed. There was only him, Etta, and the–

Oh. _The ghost_. He had almost forgotten about it.

“Is this the thing that took over your body for a year?" He eyed the body. "Is it possessing this woman’s body, now? If it _is_ , how’d you manage to stumble upon it? I didn’t think it would be willing to admit its identity so easily, not when it was willing to take over your body to do a blood ritual.”

She snorted, “No. Definitely not. And I don’t really care about _that_ spirit. This is the person I hired to find out _who_ the ghost is, the one who saved me. Not the one that. . . controlled me.”

“I still think you’re wrong about that.” After a few seconds, when her last few words _really_ sank in, he suddenly grew furious. He growled, “You promised to leave it alone! You promised that to both of us, to me and your mum. Paying somebody to look into it is _very_ much the opposite.”

“Well, I’m technically not the actual one who’s directly trying to find out about it. I’m only paying Aziz to do it for me.”

“Merlin’s pants, did you think we didn’t mean the indirect part too?”

Etta avoided looking at his eyes. He sighed, “Fine, forget about it. How much were you going to pay her?”

The witch quietly named the number.

“Sorry, I must be losing my hearing, because I thought I heard you say _two hundred galleons_?”

She paled and shook her head. “I– I offered to pay 1200 galleons.”

Maximus blinked. “Henrietta Wilkerson, I love you like a sister, which means you’re capable of angering me like no other, but _what_ were you thinking? There’s no way in hell you could have that type of money when you're still in the lower ranks of St Mungo’s. Whatever, as long as she didn’t actually accomplish–”

A trail of pink crawled up her face. He stared at her.

“No. You’re joking. You have to be messing with me. This had to be the most stupid, dumb, hardarse thing you have ever chose to do–”

“Well,” she snapped, her anger finally overtaking her embarrassment. “It’s not like I planned for her to take only a year to find his identity. It’s not like I was planning for her to make copies of the damn photo. It’s not like I knew _she knew_ the ghost before he died. It’s not like I wanted to be in 750 galleons in debt. And I especially didn’t know she would figure out what I did!”

Etta’s face was completely red by the end of her rant, and made him feel slightly guilty over his aggressive, overbearing stream of questions.

“Fine. I’m sorry,” Maximus said, softly. “What do you want me to do about this,” he waved his hand at Aziz. “Problem.”

“Er, I’ll need you to do a memory charm.”

That, obviously, was not what he had expected.

He cried out, “Absolutely not! Are you crazy? How do you even know about– right, Freddy must have told you. Dumbarse, even after I told him to keep it a secret. . . I can’t do it, I can’t. They’re against the law in so many ways, and I’m already in hot water with a lot of families – I would lose any Wizengamot trial immediately if they ever found out I was the one who performed it! And I’m not even getting to the technicalities, what if I screw it up? Your investigator, Aziz, could get permanent brain damage. Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want to know,” his voice trembled. “To know that they’re just a husk of a person?”

“Look, I can take the fall if anyone finds out. We can switch wands and the priori incantatem wouldn’t show anything if they check your wand, yada yada yada, but I trust you on this. And, I mean, what do you have to lose?”

She held out her wand in front of her, looking as determined as one could be. She’s right, he thought. What did he have to lose? He knew, firsthand, the effects of badly done memory charm, but. . .

That night had gone by so quickly, sometimes, he was sure he must have dreamt the whole thing. The only reason he didn’t was because of how Mrs. Wilkerson had to pay the hospital fee for St Mungo’s. And, in the _one_ night, the only night, he wasn’t with the Order, the Potters were dead, the Longbottoms were tortured, and He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named was gone. Etta’s possession ended, and life had returned to normal.

Sure, there were a few hitches along the way, but if he did the charm, everything would be alright. Etta would go and express her gratitude to the ghost, she would no longer be in debt, and they could have regular, weekly dinners again without having to worry about mysterious – possibly benevolent, but likely not – wraiths. But. . . that was a violation of his morals, all of them.

He knew what he had to do. Yes, he repeated over the plan in his head, it was what he should do.

He was ready to take Etta’s wand, ready to stun and immobilize her, when it suddenly shot out of her hand and into. . . Aziz’s.

Holy shit, _they forgot about their hostage_. They were that dumb, and arguably, they were also easily the worst kidnappers to have ever existed. They had actually, _actually_ forgotten about the one person that was of importance to them.

With a broad swish, Maximus was ready to duel Aziz and held his wand tight, until it also shot into Aziz’s other, open hand. They were actually screwed. He doesn’t think he even heard her talk. That meant Aziz was actually proficient in _wandless_ and _wordless_ magic. The first time wasn’t just sheer luck. It was on _purpose_.

Merlin, they were fighting against a _trained_ dueler. He mostly knew of nasty curses and hexes that certainly were not legal in England. That normally wouldn’t be a problem, but if aurors ever came onto the scene, they’d certainly consider him a dark wizard and that it was an attempt of a hate crime. If they ever searched up his family name – no, if they even just looked at the shop he was working at, it was not going to go in favor of him.

He doesn’t even know if Dumbledore could sway the aurors' interpretation of the events, considering just how the dark the spells were. There would be no reasonable explanation to use them in a regular duel. Especially not against a witch, when it was two against one. He knew that the Order, while appreciating the efficiency of them, did not appreciate how permanently damaging they could potentially be.

Potentially, because even if he ignored all that, half the time, his wand didn’t work properly, so it would be pointless. He didn’t even go to school, with the family business keeping him busy. This was like trying to get rid of a forest fire with one pail of water: impossible.

He gave another cursory glance at his opponent and barring the wand in _each_ of her hands there was another gnarled stick of wood tucked into the braided belt, holding her pants up. He was wrong about one the compliments he had paid her, he supposed.

However, he can’t help but become a little pissed. Dumfounded, he said, “You forgot about her _wand_?”

Etta retorted, “I was in the middle of panicking over my sudden debt and that she could report me to the government, if you have forgotten, thank you very much! And I don’t see you making decisions quickly, when we could have already accomplished the charm by now.”

“What do you mean report you to the government?” he demanded, ignoring her accusation. “When did you do something illegal in the midst of all of this, besides trying to rip her off? That’s certainly not something the government would care about. She’s a freelancer, right? That shouldn’t even be an issue concerning them. And you said something earlier, something about her finding out about what you did?”

“Well, I mean– I sort of did something that day. . .”

“Be quiet!” Aziz yelled, “You can’t pretend that you forgot about it, that it just slipped your mind! You– you tricked me, you arsehole!”

“You’re acting like I’d _want_ to be sent to Azkaban! I’m not stupid enough to want that to happen to me, especially because I didn’t do it! But, for _some_ reason, you don’t believe me.”

“Trust _you_? Do you think I’m a complete loon?”

Maximus inserted, “Hold on, Etta, why would you be sent to Azkaban? What’s actually going on here?”

He edged closer to Etta, but Aziz became more frantic with wider, trembling gesticulations. She threatened, “If you come any closer, I _will_ break your wands. Snap them like twigs.”

He stopped in his steps and exchanged a look with Etta.

Then, Etta took one grand step towards the woman, and lunged for Aziz, but the other woman was too fast for her.

“ _Petrificus Corporis_!”

Etta’s arms snapped together, her whole body becoming rigid as a board, and she flopped onto the ground. It seemed to be a modification of the body–bind curse, one that he hadn’t heard before and didn’t know the countercurse for. Either way, creating and figuring out countercurses were more of Etta’s specialty. Well, damn.

Aziz didn’t even say the cushioning charm, resulting in Etta landing on her back with a loud thump. A little harsh, even if. . . Well, maybe _because_ Etta was planning to wipe the woman’s memories.

He put his hands up. He didn’t want to cross this witch, not when they were clearly not going to win a duel against her. Etta couldn’t move, and neither of them had their wands with them. Aziz could, very literally, break their wands, and there would be nothing they could do about it. His wand might be faulty, but there was still symbolic and a little bit of sentimental value to it. Anyways, Maximus had used the locking charm, and customers usually did not visit at the current time. They were completely cornered.

Going through a list of possible actions they could do, but once again, he realized that all of them were impossible, given the situation. They couldn’t apparate, they couldn’t activate a portkey, and they most definitely couldn’t fight back.

“I won’t try doing anything. I won’t try to run away, I swear.”

“Right,” she glared at him. “Mr. Yes I will do the memory charm for you, Wilkerson, darling. Like I’d trust what you’re telling me. _Incarcerous_. _Petrificus Corporis_.”

And now, both of them were defenseless against Aziz. The only good aspect was that they could still talk, perhaps, still annoy the woman until she relented, and let them go.

“I wasn’t actually going to do the memory charm, you know. If that makes you feel any better, but I feel like you wouldn’t believe me. You don’t seem the type of person to feel relieved about that. But I’m curious, where’d you learn that? Did you make it yourself?”

“Haven’t you heard? A clever witch never reveals her secrets,” she replied, dryly. She was much calmer, after gaining the ultimate upper hand in the duel.

“Aziz,” Etta pleaded. “Could you please release us?”

Aziz had a pensive look on her face, and Etta seemed more and more hopeful as the silence was prolonged. Finally, she said, “I could, but I don’t want to. So, I won’t.”

Etta muttered, “It was worth a shot.”

He couldn’t help it, but Maximus laughed. Of course, Etta managed to piss off the very same person she had offered to pay 1200 galleons to, and it was 1200 _galleons_. It was so Etta–like that she managed to anger someone, unintentionally, so he kept on chuckling, until he was just heaving on the floor, struggling to catch his breath.

As he turned his eyes so he could see the rest of the room, both of the women looked at him, both with disappointed expressions painted onto their faces.

“ _God_ , I should have realized that everyone in your family was just annoying as you, Wilkerson. I should have never accepted this job.”

“We’re not related.”

“We almost were.”

“Well, now I’m glad that we aren’t. Could you imagine us being forced to spend time together, all the time?”

“Oh, _I_ should be the one saying–”

“Look,” Aziz interrupted, “I don’t give a shit. I really, really don’t. What I do care about is that you somehow think you can null our contract, because you can’t.”

Maximus blinked, “Oh, you were listening that early on? Why didn’t you just stun us, then?”

“Because it’s a good idea to take on a wizard and witch with unknown abilities when they were focused?” the one standing witch retorted. “Yeah, that just sounds brilliant! 10 points to Gryffindor for being an utter _idiot_!”

“You think I was a _what_? I’m not a griffin, in any shape or form.” he asked, disgusted, but mostly confused.

Etta ignored her almost relative and looked extremely offended. Talking for the first time after Aziz’s intervention, she countered, “I’m pretty sure you’re underestimating us. I mean how hard could committing fraud even be? I could just put the contract in a paper shredder and _boom_! Our contract has never existed, not even in the eyes of wizarding law. And don’t try to pull the gemino excuse again, I know how it works, and that its copies don’t last that long. It’s rare for the copies to even last a few hours And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a wixen using a copying machine.”

Maximus affirmed, “It’s true, I can back up that plan. It’ll definitely work.”

Again, both of the women stared at him.

“What?”

“Are you being sarcastic, or do you actually know how to commit fraud, successfully? Because I think it’s important to clarify now, I was just joking about it.”

“You know my family is weird as _fuck_ , remember? So, yes. I’m telling you, your method is legitimate. You’d really be surprised at how easily records can be falsified in the wizarding world.” He thought for a few seconds, before adding, “And in the muggle world, too.”

Aziz rolled her eyes, “As enlightening all of this is, I’m afraid we have to cut it short. Ugh. I should have known all of your friend’s were just as much of a criminal as you. The fact that I’m the one who’s saying it is absolutely astounding. And both of you are the ones underestimating _me_. I didn’t use a regular piece of parchment or quill to write up the contract, and if you paid any attention when we made it, you would have noticed.”

Etta was silent for a few seconds, before she paled, looking stung, “Oh.”

“Oh, _what_? C’mon Etta, I’m completely in the dark here.”

“What Wilkerson means to say,” the standing woman smoothly picked up. “Is that she used a blood quill. The contract is magically binding, so even if you erased my memory, the contract still would work. If you purposefully didn’t pay the money, your magic would be taken. Like _boom_ – it would just be gone, and there would be nothing you could do to get it back. The only way to end it is if both parties agree to the termination, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to do that. Not when I could get something so much better.”

If he was able to cover his face with his hands, maybe only because of the sheer second–hand embarrassment, he would have done so. Hormonal twenty–year–olds could be so stupid. He really should have known better than to think that the situation was simple.

They had to do something to sweep up this colossal mess under the carpet. Anything would be better than the bitter awkwardness they were swamped in.

Etta appeared to be thinking of something, probably a way to not remain in a body–bind curse. Then, she piped up, “Fine, I’ll give you the money, _but_ it would have to be in increments. 200 galleons a year, for now, until I get promoted. We can talk about the payments later, because first, we need to create a contract. All three of us: Farzaneh Aziz, Henrietta B. Wilkerson and Maximus L. Zamfir.”

 _What_ was Etta even thinking of? Had she not learnt her lesson the first time around? Was she not aware blood contracts were easily the worst way to ensure agreements?

Aziz glanced at her before opening her satchel. She cooed, “Wouldn’t expect anything less from a nastly little necromancer. But, sure. I even have a blood quill and parchment, here, with me.”

He grimaced, “Woah, woah, woah. You could dislike Etta, but we don’t have to start throwing around unreasonable insults. Right, Etta? I mean she might have done necromancy before, but she was possessed, and it obviously didn’t work, so–”

Once again, the said woman refused to look at him.

Groaning, he said, “So, this was what was so illegal. You can’t just leave out those types of details, especially when they’re literally the most important parts of it–”

“I’m _well_ aware of what you think about that particular field. Would you really have helped me if I told you everything?”

He snapped back, “And you’re also well aware _why_ I think that way! If you only explained all the specifics of what was going on, then maybe we wouldn’t be paralyzed in the backroom of my workplace! And our wands wouldn’t be in the danger of being broken! And we wouldn’t be forced into signing another bloody contract!”

“You can’t be serious! I need magic, and if what Aziz said was true, I would effectively become a squib–”

“Maybe you should have! If you were going to be that daft–”

“Maybe you should shut up, when you have no idea what you’re talking–”

“I know what I’m talking about, thank you very much! Etta you’re such a–”

“A _what_ , Maximus? What am I?”

“You’re such a fucking hardarse! Why can’t you just be honest–”

“We’re going around in circles! You know why I didn’t tell you the complete truth, it’s not my fault you can’t even–”

“I understand things perfectly fine. You’re the one with the stupidest, idiotic reasoning!”

“I’ll hex you once–”

“Sorry to disrupt your argument,” Aziz said, coolly, in a manner that clearly meant she didn’t care one bit that she interrupted their steady stream of insults. “I’ve completed writing it. Read it and tell me if there’s something you don’t agree with. If there isn’t anything to fix, I’ll give you the quill, I’ll take off the curse on your arm and you can sign it.”

He tried really, _really_ hard not to point out the obvious. Etta beat him to the chase.

“We can’t read it from where we are, right now. Of course, you could just say the countercuse now, and. . .”

Aziz snorted, “That’s not going to trick me, Wilkerson; you’d need something much better than that. I’ll read it out loud.”

“Why do you even carry a blood quill around with you? That’s weirder than anything I did so far today, and don’t try to deny that it isn’t, because it _is_. Blood quills are probably more illegal than creating a fake record. Like five years more of serving at Azkaban type of illegal.”

“What do you think I use them for? All my clients want me to do something they wouldn’t want the law to find out about, in one way or another. What’s a little blood contract compared to that? Now shut up, before I decide that this is more trouble than this is worth.”

He quickly snapped his mouth closed.

So, Maximus lay on the dusty floor, completely paralyzed, thinking how his life came to that point. He did not want to sign a contract, nevertheless a _blood_ contract.

If there was anything his mum had taught him, it was that only fools agreed to things beyond their control. And blood contracts were _definitely_ something outside of his domain. However, there was very little he could prevent it from happening, with Etta offering both of their full names.

Not even just their first name, but their middle and last names too!

Names had power, for Merlin’s sake, you didn’t just throw them around like a piece of paper! Well, he corrected himself, if you weren’t the one and only insane Henrietta Wilkerson. Internally, Maximus groaned as the woman read off the writing on the paper.

Aziz recited: _By this contract, Farzaneh H. Aziz, Henrietta M. Wilkerson and Maximus L. Zamfir shall not purposefully harm any of the participants of the contract in the intention to kill, severely disfigure or maim. They shall not act to permanently damage parts of the body of the other participants, unless it is in the intention to help the other participant._

Okay, that was reasonable. He could admit _that_ much.

_Aziz shall not reveal Wilkerson’s part in a necromantic ritual that took place in October, 1981. She shall not reveal her investigation into Regulus A. Black. She shall not reveal any of Lakatos’s actions, implied or not, that happened on August 7th, 1982. Failure to do so will be considered going against the contract._

The ghost was somebody from the Black family? Maximus was right after all, there was no way the shade had wanted anything good from Etta. It likely was the thing that possessed her, and he would argue that point, regardless of what Etta thought. Etta had no experience with dark families; she didn’t understand how they functioned, or how ruthless their members were.

She had too much blind faith in people, humans, in general.

_Wilkerson shall pay Aziz 200 galleons every year, for six years, and shall forward it to Aziz’s Gringotts vault by the first month of the year. If she is unable to do so, she shall send a notice to Aziz before January 31st, or else it will be considered going against the contract._

This time he quietly laughed. Aziz refused to not profit from the original deal. It was something he could admire about the woman.

_Zamfir shall not place any memory charms to alter or change the other participant’s memories. Failure to do so will be considered going against the contract._

He almost laughed that time, as well. Yes, he could understand that particular clause.

_The participants shall not attempt to avoid fulfilling the terms of the contract; if a participant does try to avoid the contract, they shall die. The contract may only be terminated if all three participants are in mutual agreement to do so._

The word choice left something to be desired, but it was understandable _why_ she chose the phrase. She was serious about the contract and she chose to refer to death so clearly because of that. He tensed. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse.

_Confidentiality clause._

_The participants shall not disclose any such details that are mentioned within the contract or documentation connected to it, unless all three participants have spoken, willing agreement to do so. Otherwise, any information pertaining to the case should not be told to anyone else outside of the contract, and it will be considered a violation to the contract._

The writing was simplistic, and very, _very_ general. It was clever, he had to admit. Its vagueness was also frightening, though. To what extent could someone circumvent the conditions? To what extent could someone say another participant was not going about the conditions in a straightforward way?

He knew that it would take a firm belief that another person had intentionally gone against the clauses, but. . . he had to confirm that Etta knew about it.

Maximus opened his mouth but stopped before saying anything. Etta had a complete mask of calm covering her face, making her look overwhelmingly confident.

“Don’t worry,” she assured. “I know how blood contracts work, even if I might not always be aware that I’m signing one.”

He glared at her. “You’re just fortunate that stupidity isn’t illegal, or else you’d have at least ten lifetimes in Azkaban, by now.”

“So? Is everything suitable for your tastes?”

They shared one last look before confirming their opinion. In tandem, they declared, “Yes.”

Aziz had a filthy smile propped up on her face. Maximus still couldn’t read her, or estimate how genuine it truly was, but he _did_ know that creating a new contract could have been her end goal, for the entire encounter. He had a creeping feeling that he would need to ask his family for a favor, for something or the other with the deal, soon.

He swallowed nervously. Maximus hoped that wouldn’t be the case. He didn’t know if he could even manage to do it.

* * *

_St George’s Church_

_Esher, Surrey_

_Unknown Date_

A brisk wind swept past him, pushing crumbling autumn leaves forward on their path, but he felt nothing. There was not even a tingle crawling up his skin.

Vague silhouettes of children were playing a muggle game with chalk–drawn squares on the pavement. He thought it was called something along the lines of hopsketch, though he wasn’t sure. He had never been allowed to go out and play with the muggle children right outside of their home; at first, he complained about it, but he soon grasped the reality of the situation.

Sirius had, as well. He just chose to disobey their parents. He must have had the notion that he was above them, above the old–fashioned mindset placed upon them, but Sirius was wrong. Stupidity was an ugly shade on everyone, but especially terrible for his brother. Did he think Regulus would forget about the time when Sirius was just as passionate as the rest of them, about their family’s ideals, before he was sorted into Gryffindor?

Looking at the children having a fun time, outside and in the sun, an unreasonable feeling of bitterness rose up his throat. Sirius would have _loved_ it here. Regulus wanted to hate it, simply because of that. He remembered his mother’s words, that jealousy was unsuitable of a Black.

He paid it no mind, ignoring it like the disregard would trigger the envy to leave him.

Benches were convenient for many things, the first among them – at least for him – was to serve as a hiding spot. They seemed like a clear place to look for things, whether it be a lost bookbag or a missing child, but nobody actually gave them their full attention. It was something he could take advantage of, when he wanted to be out and about without getting recognized by one of the Dark Lord’s minions, acting like he wasn’t one of them, not that long ago.

From that, it would be easy to guess where to choose to be.

He was sitting on a wooden bench, placed directly across the muggle church, as per usual, and stared directly at the Sun. The church bells tinkled, twelve times, as it approached noon.

Regulus Black had his soul returned to his body, but. . . There was always a but. He did not have a wand and he was too embarrassed to ask Kreacher to retrieve it for him, because Merlin damn it, everything was complete shit. Did he. . . even have magic, anymore? His body was essentially dead – a corpse, really. Could corpses even use magic?

That wasn’t all, though. To add to his distress, something even worse, was that the wards in Château du Deuil, what he had started to call the house in Esher, started to malfunction. It did not behave the same way as the ones placed in Grimmauld. They did not properly repel muggles from the estate, which made some sense, he supposed.

He had chosen to go to Esher because the rest of his family hated it. They didn’t like the proximity to muggles they would be forced to endure in the Summer months, as if the main branch didn’t live in the middle of muggle London. They likely bought it, as yet another status of intense wealth, rather than any lingering attachment to the location. They didn’t even have _another_ name, a nickname, for the manor. For an elitist family like his, it was a blatant sign of dislike.

Obviously, his father never tried to redo the wards on it, and on more than one occasion, Regulus had to awkwardly offer to what he was pretty sure was a muggle child, those that wandered into the forest and had gone astray off the path, a cup of tea.

It made his skin itch. It felt wrong, like he was committing a grievous crime, just by. . . being nice, he assumed. He spent all of his life hating muggles, but now. Now, he was almost openly living with them, interacting with them, _having tea_ with them. There wasn’t even underlying manipulation, any underhanded reason for it. He just did it, because it was polite. And there was no way to avoid it. Was he even allowed to do that?

He didn’t know the true answer to the question, and he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to know the answer.

There was this one muggle girl who had a propensity of getting lost. So much so, Regulus was sure it was no longer a coincidence that she ended up in the front of the estate, at exactly 3:15 p.m. Her name was Tola; she was an only child, didn’t seem to have many friends, and was _very_ talkative.

Regulus assumed her lack of company was because of her weird name, but he wasn’t quite sure how muggle children made friendships. From what she had told him about her school, he doesn’t understand _why_ people thought muggles were so nice; if anything, they were cruel. He could relate in that aspect, at the very least, and did not try to drag her out of his home.

He only needed her to visit for the third time to be able to make tea, the muggle way. The first time, well, they both promised not to talk about the first attempt. He had almost set the kitchen on fire, if it weren’t for Tola’s quick reaction. But. . . he had just _frozen_ at the first sight of the flames. He had never been afraid of flames, and he didn’t know _why_ he had done so. He could only hypothesize about it. He didn't quite want to know the true reasoning for it, anyways.

A black–clad figure plopped down next to him, interrupting his thoughts.

“You,” he scowled.

“Yes, me!”

Stranger had a gleeful face, resembling Potter’s, when it was just before he was going to pull off a prank. Regulus hated Stranger, so much. They’ve talked before, but he knows next to nothing about them, so Regulus has deemed the mysterious person Stranger. Given of Stranger refused to even reveal the pronouns they used, Regulus was also forced to refer to them with pronouns out of the typical binary. He doubted that Stranger would ever find it necessary to tell anything about themselves, but that didn't mean he shouldn't try.

“I don’t like you.”

“So, you’ve said,” Stranger pointed out, dismissively. “I don’t really care, though.”

“I hate this. I hate you,” he groaned, placing his head in his hands. “Can’t you bother somebody else?”

Stranger looked surprised, before laughing. “You think I would want to move on from you? You’re my favorite, Reggie, dear.”

“I’m nobody’s favorite.”

Regulus went on, even as Stranger brayed even louder. _Merlin_ , their laugh was ugly. “Can’t you just possess my brother? He’s undoubtedly more interesting than I am, right now. All I do is read grimoires and talk to the muggle offspring and Kreacher and sometimes, I don't even talk to the grocer when I need to restock my tea leaves! I ask Tola to do it for me! That must be extremely exciting for you to experience through me!”

A peculiar grin played on their face. They responded, “If I were you, I wouldn’t be too sure about that accusation about your brother. It would be better if you just trusted me on what I said about your brother.”

“How can I even begin to trust you?” Regulus all but shrieked, “if you don’t tell me _any_ specific details? I don’t even know what your name is!”

Nobody paid attention to their confrontation. Of course, they didn’t. He always detested their meetings; it was worse than when he was stuck being a ghost, as there were hundreds of people, yet he was only able to talk to one person, them being one of the most annoying people in the world. He couldn’t even avoid them.

“I don’t have a name,” they responded, as they always did, when their conversation deviated to that particular topic.

“I don’t believe you. All people have names, _even_ spirits.”

“When did I say that I was a person?”

Regulus gave them a look, as if saying _are you being idiotic on purpose, or are you really just that much of an idiot_?

“We talked about this before. You would have to be a person to become a spirit, a magical person at that – even if I’m not sure whether you’re a wizard or witch – but you are definitely one of them and you are definitely possessing me, so. . .” he shrugged. “It’s only logical.”

They chuckled again, in a cruel, mocking way. Stranger tutted, “Clever, ickle Reggie, I’m a bit disappointed you haven’t realized who I am, yet. I had so much faith in you, enough so that I even betrayed my other half. Just this once. But why are you sure that I’m in that trivial category?

“Did it ever occur to you that I’m something beyond you, something beyond any human?” They paused, examining their nails and waiting for the silence to come. “Or were you too narrow–minded to think outside of your barely fleshed out views? You could fool everyone but yourself; you were always a follower, when you were alive.”

Stranger’s imitation of Sirius hurted him. It felt like a stab to the heart, with how much Stranger knew about Regulus, but how little they were willing to talk about themselves. It was so _unfair_.

“Shut up!” Regulus snarled. Yet, Stranger remained infuriatingly calm. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for your shallow trickery? I don’t need an irrelevant spirit telling me what I can do or can’t do. You’re the one in my body, not the other way around. I can get someone to exorcise you at any moment, _you cannot_.”

Their eyes narrowed, and their face lit up in a fury that Regulus had never spotted on anyone before. Not even on his Mother or Father. They bared their teeth, “Touched a nerve, did I? Regulus Arcturus.”

They folded their index finger and he started choking, as if a rope was pulled tight around his throat. Stranger’s voice was both strangely cold and mocking, unusual, with how they usually treated him as an acquaintance, a friend even. It was hard to admit that Regulus had gotten used to exchanging pleasantries, at least relatively so, with Stranger. Stupid move, he had chided to himself.

“I have chosen to spare you from my other half; something you might not comprehend the significance of right now, but that doesn’t matter. You, of all people, do not get to try my patience. I have given you a second chance. A chance to become more. A chance to do something right, for once, in your pathetically short, mortal life. A chance to kill Tom. Do _not_ make me regret it.”

His vision became spotty, with his oxygen supply being cut off. Merlin, he hated how Stranger chose to end their meetings in the same terrible way. No matter what Regulus did, he would always manage to make the spirit not exactly mad. . . but reckless with choosing his method of departure, and the spirit would asphyxiate him until he lost consciousness and was forced to arise from his slumber. What a nasty bastard.

The only new aspect of it was the monologue that they had given, basically filled with double–meanings and threats. Who was this Tom, anyways?

Regulus was unable to match any magical family line that he knew of to the first name, nor to any mudblood – muggleborns, he hastily corrected; if he was going to defect, he might as well do it completely, just to be obnoxious – student he had ever heard of in his years at Hogwarts. And the name was as muggle as a name could be.

Though, he wasn’t sure why Stranger wanted him to kill a muggle, not when that was the only thing he could do correctly, before. It didn’t seem much of a second chance to him.

He coughed out, “ _Fuck you_ , arsehole.”

“What spirit! But, don’t forget,” Stranger murmured. “I don’t have millenniums to wait for you to kill him. I have chosen you, and if you fail to do it within the timeframe. . . I will make sure you will be sent back to the dead. For good.”

As all of surroundings fully became enshrouded in black, he finally exited the dream and damned the delusional spirit that chose to reside in his body. Regardless of what he had said about the spirit, earlier, Merlin damn it, he hated Stranger so, _so_ much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tldr; etta, farzaneh, and max r now stuck to a blood contract, and can't purposefully hurt each other... this certainly has consequence in any further investigations into reg's resurrection, as well as how they deal w the incidents that happened on october 31st, 1981. esp since max doesn't trust reg to have good intentions, whatsoever (he does _have_ his own reasons for being so skeptical of reg! which will be covered more, later). 
> 
> to clear things up, farzaneh isn't necessarily the best dueler of the 3, max is just stressed and unconfident and is def the most dangerous. he's more ruthless and he acc has knowledge of darker spells. his self doubt is bringing him down. the other 2 were never focusing on dueling in the first place, as etta creates spells which focus on healing, and farzaneh is more of someone who can _surprise_ people, and that can def be a deciding factor when it comes to fights, something she's well unaware of.
> 
> yes. all of reg's scenes (until he meets the order) will either be in the church or his estate... for symbolic rzns (aka im lazy and google maps doesn't show that many locations that might be empty during the weekday so i can't be bothered lmfao). i've also added the unreliable narrator tag... well obviously none of them are rly impartial to what's going on. reg still acts like an 18 year old, regardless of how long he had physically been alive, and since his brain won't ever acc mature from that stage, he's gonna do and think a lot of stupid things. cuz, he's basically _always_ gonna be 18. and that sucks, because there are def things you will regret from five years ago, and his beliefs will change, but it's still like nothing has changed at all. (yea i have STRONG feelings about this)
> 
> i'm also sorely tempted to have a golden triad relationship, half bc in ootp it'd be funny as hell if reg asked "so, are y'all dating or what?" cuz he has NEVER met these ppl b4, but they're all strangely intimate w each other. but also i rly like hinny bc gin genuinely makes harry happy so :/ i'd be interested in ur thoughts
> 
> kudos and comments encourage me to write :]


	8. NOT a new chapter

helllllooooooooooo!

to clear things up, first of all, this is _not_ a chapter saying i want to end this fic lol. no, this is more about asking for insight in how i should proceed. i really like this fic, and i really do like the characters, but the character voice is seriously lacking, and if i continue writing the way i do now, it's very likely the current "exposition" will likely end at around 100k words. and. . . i'm going to be tired of writing by then, because obviously i don't want to burn out.

so there's two things i can really do:

  1. heavily edit the current chapters, which will likely take a while. it's honestly hard to not elaborate, instead of deleting content.
  2. scrap this story and start a "new" fic. obviously, it's going to have the same premise, but the whole lot of inferiority and feelings regulus has will likely be talked about after. his relationships with tola and the Stranger will be more elaborated on; farzaneh, etta and max might meet on different terms, but ultimately meet to do the same thing; i hope to also get rid of the fluff and random details, so we can hopefully arrive at the start of OotP within 20-40k 
    * i would probably attach a link to the word doc with the current story if anybody's still interested in reading that :)
    * for the 50 people who are currently subscribed, i would link the new fic in an update lol



pls acc tell me in the comments or something if they have any suggestions, because i genuinely like this story, and hopefully, i will finish it at some point. i just need to know what's preferred, as this fic is both self indulgent but also something that's supposed to be enjoyed by readers, and it's hard to know what's the best thing to do if nobody states what they want.


	9. new version is up !!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's time

use [this!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175913/chapters/69041631) link to go to the new version. alternatively, you can just click on the 'A Thousand Ways this Could Go' series, and click on part 2. either one works just fine, obviously :)

i won't be deleting this fic, as i do like some of it and i don't think i wrote anything that i'd be ashamed to be associated with. plus all the comments/interactions i had with other users makes me happy. the publishing date for this chapter is a while ago cuz.. well just cuz i want to. anyways ty for yalls support and consideration, even when i stopped updating out of the blue. happy new year !! 

.

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna ever talk hmu thru: [ig!](https://www.instagram.com/lovely.raaya/), [twt!](https://twitter.com/raayachez), [tumblr!](https://rchez.tumblr.com/)
> 
> i'm more active on ig, but i'll to message you back on either account :)


End file.
